The Crows

When the winter winds blow the whistle
The crows sing the lullaby
The many faces I see in these many mirrors
The many voices that I hear in these many crows never cease
The clock ticking, but what do you see?
Is it the hands turning backwards afraid of me

How long before the graves explode
Shattering poems all over,
For you to pick one by one until you can pick no more
The sanity disappearing into the nights
into the sleep while the crows sing the lullaby

They gave me wings to fly
To meander all alone in these woods of black
These little devils from the past, the present and may be the future
assemble, gamble, trample trying to gobble me
What little light left to flickering by people around me
They see, they hear, they talk all like crows
Like the crows on the streets over the electric poles

They dress up in suits with polished boots
Depressing, and bleak are the poems roots, now
Is it me? Is that a crow? I wonder if its me with a tinge of snow
Why did it had to come to this. To the graveyard row
All of these people are dead and became crows!