In cold December graveyard,
leafless twig hands stretch doom
outward at cruel windís bidding.
Stripped of their finery, the lofty
oracles offer a disfigured alphabet
to timeís sinister march.

Twisted sisters, they sing a potent
nursery rhyme, saying hush-a-bye
to both cradle and tomb, rocking
and writhing, while thirteen black
birds cackle and caw among the
winnowed boughs.



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