As I steal through prosperous forests,
Children in violet bow their heads
By the time that I desert it,
All but few lye dead

When but meek I pray only on villages,
Claiming their crops as my prize
As I flourish, their livestock starve,
May only the valiant survive

Only the primrose may I forgive
For much must die if I’m to live

I force my way into towns,
Where victims retreat beneath their covers,
I make naivety from fantasies
And mavericks from lovers

Their skies are plagued with madness,
While their trees bare nothing but woe,
This barren land is my progeny,
My fertility: the living’s throes

Only the robin may I forgive,
For much must die if I’m to live
The cities’ chimneys pour out defences,
However their armour is but a beck
My hands pry themselves through windows,
Through cracks, up skirts, down necks

Murderous meadows and silent cities,
In the sky not a song nor chime,
My rein will be long and unforgiving,
A formidable wintertime


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