Wind through the branches.
The tree has had its limb cut before it could grow.
Wind through the ropes.
Hands tied high, the puppet dances.
Its insides are eaten by a crow.
"10 more limbs to go." A greeting, and a warning.
Another requiem is beginning, the remaining limbs are filled with woe.
Wind through the gently swaying body, waiting.
Born as no one, the death of a shadow.