wounded lays the art of men
her palette tail and golden crest
hither and thither across the land she flew
with tales of yore and a soul that bled
now she's resting in the hearts of men
where she made herself a lovely nest
and sings the song of morning dew
and rays of gold that brushes her trickling bed

vanity knows nothing of that sort
as eden in the latter days
though her voice is stark and full of sorrow
she pours her soul into this prose
beguiled by the warmth that summer brought
and the barley fields that gently swayed
I know that the beauty that she displays is for me but to borrow
her essence is but a dream, such of a plucked garden rose