drifting in the morning fog, a crow's call
the sound found wisdom of the few
who raised a cry for liberty, from dust and chains
and the call falls upon the hearts of many
who see but to the nearest door, and never more
than needs be to gain the trappings of equality.
The timbre pierced the hard shell
grown upon the tender seeds
and the sun-kissed child, opens its arms
wide to a wider world; and heavens own
chalice lent to them to drink of forgiveness
the crow's call through morning cloud
the risen Sun determines thus
the bend of time and calculus of perils
fallen like dew on fresh formed petals
like the morning, a rose has but a day
but the beauty of a glance can linger
into the final fall of night
when I looked deep into the morning
and found it was the sweet martin
pretended...as a crow, and how it seemed
the king became the pauper, with so little
yet gifted the world his golden cloak,
a mantle made by his hands...
a rich coat of Love
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