Tossed like a golden coin in the air,
by saints,
the sun will cast its rays randomly upon the earth.
A few pierce through the straw of the nest,
though what purpose could they serve,
when the warm weather has enveloped
the land for a month now?

Could loneliness be cold?
Where does the cuckoo get the idea
to push aside,
from another nest,
a foreign chick and,
in its place,
lay its own?