The only song I left for you to know
Was that dark aubade of the lustrous crow
Counting out his sorrow
As he flew from who caused it to come
Away, and he was never seen by anyone.
A cat hung under fern
To almost form the sound
Before it vanished in the wind
Not to return
Though music was the language we preferred.
This song was supposed to be of joy,
The way we feel the true.
In secret roosts
I brought down such heavenly tunes for you.
But it's okay
I always ran away
To places no one finds
And if they never do
How could they mind?
What did we lose?
