In a sorrowful street in Jerusalem, a crow calls for its lover.

  It shrieks and it cries, yet no lover replies.

  It borrows a reeking arrow of dawn, it blows and it flutters.

  It leeks out the lies, red cover, golden eyes.

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  The motion of the commotion alerts the guards.

  They take out their weapons, stabbing the bird.

  The crow spins and flows thin, asserting its bar.

  They lay out fair cretins, stacking the herd.

  The cretins screech and blacken, the bird falls and dies.

  It falls from the sky, landing on its side.

  The hell of life’s living, gone dark in the early night.

  No lover responds to the crow’s sorrowful plight.