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.