Tuesday 4 August 2009

A grey sky, a bitter sting

And under the boughs unbowed,
all clothed in snowy shroud
She had no heart so hardened.
All under the boughs unbowed...

Each feather, it fell from skin
Till threadbare as she grew thin.
How were my eyes so blinded?
Each feather, it fell from skin.

And I will hang my head,
Hang my head low,
And I will hang my head,
Hang my head low

From The Crane Wife Part 3 by The Decemberists

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