Four and Seven Crows
Where do they go, where do they go?
Down where the thistle bush always grows
and the wind blows.
Where the Northwind ever blows
that's where they go.
Oh, those four and seven crows.
The winter in my darkest marrow,
Hardened purple walls,
Bolted wood-torn shutters
Frost-borne Nubian eclipse
The scattered plasma on the walls, itching.
My grave is a hardened bone.
The highlands in my plaqued aorta,
Ruffled at the sleeve,
And a limp grown stronger
The crest of seas which once boiled over
Now marbled over with lipid spills.
The gilded gate is a tattered vein.
Four and Seven Crows,
Which of you knows which way she goes?
She tied a ribbon 'round one of your toes,
A winter's rose,
And she whispered soft and slow whither she'd go
To but one of you black crows.
The willow in my wheezing bellows,
Sulphuric greys of a turning steak,
Sink-holed battleground like Swiss,
The scattered scars of a woolly lung.
My grave is a yellow sponge.
Oh you twenty-nine crows,
Only you know now I suppose,
Before she quietly froze,
A winter's rose,
That she wed me in the cold and the deep snow
And only you know.
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