Among the thorny branches she sings a song and throws herself on the longest, sharpest thorn. And, rising above the unspeakable anguish,
she sings, dying, that the lark and the nightingale would have envied...
The only, incomparable song, and it comes at the price of life...
But the world stands still and listens, And God himself smiles in the heavens...
For the best is bought only at the price of great suffering....
At least that's what the legend says.....

The bird with the thorn of the blackthorn in its breast obeys the immutable law of nature; it does not know what force makes it throw itself on the spike and die with a song...
At the moment when the thorn pierces her heart, she does not think of near death, she just sings, sings until her voice runs out and her breath is cut off...
But we, when we throw ourselves on the thorns, we know, we understand,
and still we breastfeed on the thorns...
It will always be so...