Six million flowers.

Their petals plucked,

Stems skinned,

Roots broken,

Nectar drained.

Why, oh, why, Mr. Bird,

Did you have to go and do that?
Was the flower field that important to you?
Or was it the fact that you hated the flowers in the field?

Or maybe it was the fact that neither flowers nor the field mattered at all,

And everything was just an excuse?

No matter what might have spurred you to action,

No matter if you try to make yourself to be the victim,

A mountain of petals pile up at your claws,

And a fountain of nectar is spilled wastefully on the ground.

Six million flowers.
You don't even eat flowers, do you?