Ebony-tipped feather,
hungry bead-eye—
they eat eelgrass
in the shrinking-lake.
Autumn after autumn,
they cannot help but fly.
These long-legged souls
always fall headfirst––
do you see them
hit the Yangtze River?
Bend after bend,
they cannot help but die.
The living keep flying
towards Poyang Lake––
They cover the sun
with bone-white wings.
Flock after flock,
they cannot help but try.