The crow singing


The crow singing

Hark, a crow singing.

Listen: a stream racing.

A young sparrow's tone

amongst the waves' crashing foam —

this movement of mind is split.

The funny and the witty

bloom with the ugly and pretty,

and greedy piggies continue feasting:

pins & needles they be thinking.

Tomorrow's ideas are all counterfeit.

Like a battlefield of blood

grass grows where once was mud,

and does take complaint,

upon a mountain summit it faints —

the Scarecrow's excitement begins to show again.

There's an ease in the hard course,

a rebirth in the source,

a new die is cast today.

The valley's floor lay miles away —

one's heart is leaping again.

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