Sorry, I cannot provide a translation for that word.

Alexander Clive, a famous representative, seeks refuge in his childhood home to escape the shame of his painful collapse on the stage. And there, in the haze of feeling time, the living, and the dead, he remembers, reflects, dreams, and walks with hesitant steps toward himself. The situation suddenly became clear to me: on the ground below the window sill lies a dead chick. It must have fallen from the ceiling, or failed to fly, so it fell to the ground and broke its neck. Its gaze is almost glassy, and its feathers are pale. The seagull, and I have no doubt that it is one of the parents, opened its beak again in that strange way, silently. Perhaps it was a warning, warning me not to approach, but I tend to believe that it is a sign of severe distress. Even seagulls must have expressions of joy or sorrow that companions can distinguish. Maybe it sees our features as empty and expressionless, just as we see theirs. A man drugged with suffering that cannot be explained, for example, I am sure that in her eyes he would be nothing but another fool with dead eyes staring mercilessly at an incomparable scene of loss. The bird was male, I think; yes, I think he was a father. I left him to his silent prayers, and I descended, driven by this coincidence, to the sea.