Mellow is the sweet singing of the sparrow,
To the fellow sitting on a tree trunk,
Sobbing himself 'til he's full and blind.
His creed is speaking, ready for taking.

Ready to make the skies green with storm,
Jilted with scorn his prayers must be,
To compose such cruelty.
We let ourselves entertain our hopes.

Yet he will not listen.
So instead we hope the sparrow's notes,
Glisten with his blood,
Glisten.

And the tears are dripping,
Ripping through the crowds.
We never saw the circle,
Constituting to our hate.

So we were ate up by clouds,
And avenging crows,
And millions of divine foes,
Yet defensive we became,
In the cycle of hate!

Mellow is the sweet singing of the sparrow,
O'er flowers growing from hearts long rotten.