A crow bathed in sunlight sings once again.
Silent attempts at capturing the light.
Grazed against nature, a sorrowful sight.
A desolate life, enriched now and then.
Nevertheless, it spurs the poet's pen.
The embers smolder, the crow lost the fight.
With a stifled guffaw, his bones take flight,
leaving nothing but monsters among men.

As ink pours down the cracks of ice-filled veins.
As Gods embrace devils, and we make three.
Perhaps in this moment the crow grows free.
Perhaps in this moment we find our way.
A glint of hope, an escape from the pain.
Alas alas, we live another day.