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My songbird with beak as sharp as thorn,

Hatch now from your flooded grave


You must mend thy broken brittle bones,

To find the barbed and jagged thorn


Though life you can no longer take,

The hearts of thousands will not cease to ache.



Slain once yet never again,

Fly now and help the living rest


Upon this earth, my kin hath set,

A grievous plague of grume and gore


Cry out now for your lover of old,

Yet beware of those who fear the sky’s great Marigold.



Sing your sweet and suffering song,

Take flight to greet the urban giant’s face


Find your dearest, though circled by sin,

The shield enshrined by blood of the dead


Until the disease is foiled and the tribunal called

You will never know peace, or feel accord.



Bird of slaughter, skewer our kin.