I used to lay upon the Leaves
Infused with blood and ink and Eves

Where Ash and Water left a Trail –
A thread, I sewed – and named A Tale

And there I hummed and spun the Bone
With shelves of stone and signs unknown

And mine were carved by songs of Yore
With hands and eyes atop the Morn

Perhaps we sang, my signs and I
Perhaps we danced, my Leaves and I

But that was Then – when songs were sung
The Snow is here, where none is rung

And Here is dim, and grey and mute
The wind is still, no voice or flute

Perhaps 'tis true – no bow nor string
No thread immune – He cannot sing