Woe! Woe! Sings the crow,

Within his nest of twine.

Thrice he calls to save his mind,

Once he doth want mine.

No! No! Do I reply,

But not because I tread

Within a maze of sacred gaze

Painted with a dawning red.

I merely fear the riddled bird

Would fall from perch, to stony earth,

For this mind of mine is intertwined

In a branch of glorified finds.

Insanity is calling,

And dreamed filled sleep is falling.

Yet still he calls,

The silly bird,

Is not of nature's binding.

And with the start

Of falling snow

His purity is blinding.