The surge of blood that flutters its wings within our heart and liver is something we once, in our proud delusion, mistook for the breath of life.

Imagine feeling a restless flutter inside your chest and proudly mistaking it for the vibrant pulse of life, only to realize it was merely a wave of blood churning from an inner wound. The poet captures that tragic delusion where we glorify our own torment, viewing our suffering like the beating wings of existence itself. It is a poignant reflection on how easily the pain of love and grief can masquerade as the very breath that keeps us alive.