This song

Do you hear the song of the butterflies, with the sensitivity of fragile girl's bodies, soaring to the edge of the sky, there, above the fields,
Where the lovely gray lizards are reflected in thousands of suns,
Strange children of the earth,
My heart burns with the foreboding of their
destruction. The body of a torn-apart mouse is a witness to their
short time of running and darting like sleepless shadows.
Poor, poor children, living
as if time does not exist.
Their mouths are open in anticipation of food, what for?
The indentations of your bodies and the footprints on the ground,
should not be left in the midst of human strife.
Just as should not be counted by the perceptive stars over your bones, a Inconspicuous, where are you?
The wind is like a tiny bird, eager to leave its mother before its time.
The leaves may weep for you, and the howling dog.
If it's even clear who it's about, the muffled, insane echo repeats, confused.