A murder of crows calls the morning fog.
Let this all be dream or dream of dream
And nothing more.
A rising hope soon fallen before
A gathering storm: a thunder horn.
We turn our faces as though hands of clocks;
And spin the silver through our locks;
And spin the fortune wheel;
And spin the skein;
And weave our way through borrowed time.
An unknown flash of daylight's birth
Does split the heart, to split the earth
And cleave all hopes of youth in twain.
This thundering of the mind soon blasts insane -
Or so it seems from without -
As from within there is no doubt
That no madness sees what madness does,
And I see you and me all too clearly.

Crows caw "murder!"
The murder of crows
Through the sky and trees below,
By leaf and rock and sand and sea.
What murder then?
Of you? Of me?
No, no.
We are still here -
Still held to tear or cheer
Of whip or wind;
Of prayer or sin;
Grass, Earth, or Sky;
Or to the waters tossed.
But here I am
And there you listen.
We are undead at least.
Or else alive.
What murder then?
The death of Time.

And as such, the storm does pass,
And night does fall,
And moon arise.
Stars bless the skies.
Perhaps a moth to bring me joy.
A smiling girl.
A laughing boy.
A hand to hold.
A wife to love.
Miracles all, by grace of God.
But morning's mourning
Does rise each day,
Driving Night's comfort away,
And though every morn
Is not split by storm,
Each is heralded by murder's call.

What can I make of it all?
Less than you, no doubt,
And less than me in form perhaps.
But greater if it lives beyond
And gives one thing unto my son -
Or gives one dream wings to find my daughter's mind -
Or beats a path of stars from heaven's gate,
Through storm or murder,
And leads an angel to my door.
One blessing fallen like a leaf;
A soul of a star in a grain of wheat.
Blood from stone.
Breath from bone.
Greater than I shall ever be -
Or less if it comes not to pass.
This woe or joy remains unknown.
Blood from flesh.
Splinter from bone.

Rise Sun, and burn the sky!
Let the crows fly.
For they sing of dying Time.
The hourglass turned,
The candle burned,
And I to pry my eyes from sleep.
Another day, another tear to weep.
I wake with pain
In stomach, heart, and head.
I wake with joy.
I wake with dread.
I try to shake Sleep's cobwebs from my eyes;
Cross myself;
And say my prayers
To steel myself against the morn -
To face the passing moments of a passing life.
O, God bless the Night!
Where songs fly into the wind
And all is alive.
All is alive.