Though my soft, floured heart were of beating bread
For each raven to peck crumbs in morning
Bleeding from wheaten wounds, I do, instead
Loose each door, pull back curtain adorning
First light, through open window, in you fly
A yellow songbird with speckled, pale breast
Though sweet your voice and innocent your eye
An empty plate now lies within my chest
For you thieve bread from hunger, like the rest