The Crow
When I on my deathbed look back
on my days full of doubt and debt,
I do not think remembrance of lack
Will gnaw at my mind to forget.
Will rather seek for the moments
in meadows the butterflys grace,
The sizzling days a sacrament,
The hoarfrost I shall embrace.
The brook it calls me to release
burdens and worries, old and dear.
Wind carried fragrance of my decease
Skin, bones and cartilage sunk into bier.
Am I conscious? I cannot know.
People in fine dress below I see.
I laugh and croak from raspy crow.
Sit content in an old pine tree.
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