Twenty-three Sickle-billed Lop

There once was a complete story and a complete song, but most of it is lost. The part I hummed just now is a remnant of the song. I can still imagine the joy and lightness it should have, but when I hum it to my friends in the valley, they don't have a similar feeling.

The story suffers about as much as the tune. "White moon", "Mushrooms carrying ants float out of the clouds", "Spots on stones", "We are when the drizzle falls" "Only then", "I wish I was just before that", "Red leaves of late autumn" "Mud", "Looking towards the common heart", "When will the sun come" - these are all the details I still remember.

Before my brother died, I could remember more stories and songs, but I forgot them as soon as he died. Completely lost, I don’t know how much I have forgotten. When parents pass away, their parents and earlier ancestors also take part of them with them. Which sickle-billed lops knew the complete story and song for the last time? Why did I start forgetting after that? You probably know that, but we're running out of time.

We have thought of many ways to combat forgetfulness, such as making marks in the forest to remind ourselves, and telling other small animals about the fragments. But it’s useless, every time one dies, some will be forgotten. Other animals also forget, and we no longer understand the meaning of a mark when we see it. I seem to be the last member of my species, and when I die, the stories and songs will surely disappear completely. Yet you are special and may be able to help us remember the last traces.

When my parents were still alive, my brother and I were still young. Every morning and evening, we would sing and tell stories together. That song always brings us joy, and those fragments of stories always make us laugh and sigh. The only thing to be thankful for is that even though it has long been incomplete, we have not forgotten the unchanging feeling that stories and songs bring us.

I arrived in the valley yesterday evening and was warmly welcomed by the birds. I chatted with a dodo into the early hours and learned that its ancestors had first settled in this valley. At that time, they were also on the verge of extinction like us. Two dodos escaped from humans. Fortunately, you showed them the way into the valley, so they were able to escape and live and multiply in the valley. If I were a female bird, if my brother had not died on the way, the two of us could be like the dodo and make the race prosperous again. Then the forgotten stories and songs might be recalled again. Unfortunately we didn't have that luck. I am not afraid of death. All my ancestors and partners have experienced death, and I must experience it before I can truly get close to them - no matter whether the body can filter out the soul and let us meet again.

Rationally speaking, whether there is genocide or not has nothing to do with me. It will be over when I die. But this world is full of vitality. It implants the concept of "survival and continuity" into our bodies and affects our emotions. Now that nature can no longer last, how can I not feel lost? Also, before flying into the tree hole, I patrolled the valley, paying special attention to every move I made. Sunshine, wind, leaves, water, stones, and me. I know how suitable and appropriate I am in this world, and so is our species, but it is a pity that it no longer exists. The birds in the valley will soon forget me, and I’m afraid no animals in the outside world will remember me. ——The decline of the race has caused us to be miserable all year round and have no desire to make friends. Even friends forget us quickly. It is true that we are still in human legends and scientific data, and the tail feathers decorating the human head will remain in paintings forever. It seems that people will remember it longer, occasionally lamenting our extinction, and reflecting on their own greed, desire and sin to purify their souls. But that's just human presumption. What can they remember? Never know our stories and songs, or even believe that we have stories and songs. Nothing they write down has anything to do with us.

I no longer want to pretend to be strong at this moment, please allow me to mourn myself before I die. I will once again hum the broken ballad and mourn with joy. Please help us remember those fragments, and not just as souvenirs. My brother and I believe that if anyone can successfully restore the song and the story, members of our clan will be reborn. Who says it's impossible? Our life this time is already an extremely low probability event, like a miracle, why can't there be a next time? All of us Sickle-billed Lops will be waiting in death. If you can't restore the stories and songs, please help us keep the seeds of hope alive.

Note: The Sickle-billed Lop, a bird of the genus Sickle-billed Lop in the family Passeriformes and family Lop, once lived in New Zealand. The last confirmed sighting of them was in 1907, and they were extinct. The beak shape of the two sexes of the sickle-billed jay is hugely different. The male has a very short beak, while the female has a long beak that curves downward like a sickle. They are forbidden birds in Maori mythology, and Maori people like to decorate their bodies with their tail feathers. Although there was hunting by Maori, it did not endanger the continuation of the race. The arrival of European colonists, bringing with them exotic creatures, deforestation and their hunting were the reasons for the extinction of these birds. European colonists usually believed that newly discovered lands were barren because the indigenous people were inferior people, and the indigenous creatures were also inferior creatures. Their existence was not much different from the existence of stones, and they should all be protected by the nobler European visitors. substitute.