The Murder of Crows

The Crow sings its song,

Cacophany of ca-caws, stand-still, hunger

Set fit, the tune to a dance of sword and slaughter.

The Crow dances,

The dart in black iron and polish.

The Crow sets itself alight,

On a burning fuse of gunpowder -

Alight, satisfied to be awash in fire and blood,

Alight, satisfied to lunge with the bang and red flash -

To press through salt pillar and steel.

Alight, to sing the song of the taste of iron.

The crow falls, its whistle the rending of metal-

That deafens the ears to its cacophany, to the ca-caw.

To the siren call of the murder of the Crow-

Of the lone dart falls, down at sunrise in springtime

That falls down the hillside, on the wings of the wind - 

To be a corpse on the thorn - 

Its silence lullaby to slaughter.

---

The year's at the spring,

And day's at the morn;

Morning's at seven;

The hill-side's dew-pearled;

The lark's on the wing;

The snail's on the thorn;

God's in His heaven—

All's right with the world!