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.