**The snake bit the hen**, and as the venom coursed through her body, she stumbled back to the safety of her coop.
But the other hens chose to cast her out, fearing the poison might spread.
The hen limped away, weeping—not from the bite, but from the betrayal of those she trusted most when she needed them.
And so, she left... burning with fever, dragging one leg, helpless against the cold nights.
Every step was marked by a falling tear.
The hens in the coop watched her go, disappearing into the horizon. Some murmured among themselves:
— *"Let her go... She’ll die far from us."*
And when she finally vanished into the haze, they were certain she was gone.
A few glanced at the sky, perhaps hoping to spot circling vultures.
Time passed.
Much later, a bird arrived at the coop and announced:
Your sister lives! She’s in a cave far from here."
She survived, but lost a leg to the snake’s bite."
She struggles to find food and needs your help.
Silence fell. Then came the excuses:
"I can’t go, I’m laying eggs..."*
"I can’t go, I’m searching for grain..."
"I can’t go, I’m tending to my chicks..."
One by one, they all refused. The bird left without help, returning to the cave alone.
More time passed.
When the bird returned, it brought devastating news:
"Your sister is gone... She died alone in that cave."
"No one was there to bury her or mourn her."
At that moment, deep sorrow gripped the coop. Cries of grief echoed.
Those laying eggs stopped.
Those searching for grain dropped their seeds.
Those tending to chicks froze in regret.
Guilt was more bitter than any venom. "Why didn’t we go sooner?" they asked themselves.
Without counting distance or hardship, they set off weeping toward the cave—now united by loss, but too late.
When they arrived, the hen was nowhere to be found... Only a note remained:
In life, most people won’t take a single step to help you, but in death, they’ll cross the world to bury you.
And most tears at funerals aren’t for pain but for regret and guilt.
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