Birds run and fly high
Even in the winter's gray sky
Through the stormy clouds
In the direction that winter blows
Starting early, at sunrise
They hunt, kill or try
Cause this is the natural order
To live, you should survive
Still I try to keep my tears
But they insist to run
For the love is hollow
And my selfish heart burns
And for this hollow love
as for the flying birds
shall I run and fly?
Or kill, in order to survive?
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