Milorg

The crow sings, the crowd looks on.
From a fixed point to a stage break,
A feather to an accident,
A hand upon my chest is like
A blow upon the brow,
The beak among the black and proud
To show of earned and worn,
Speak of storm and stagging.
Here I am my löwe, with horns bleeding.
A taste upon the tongue has made
A ritual of feeding, a challenge
Of the chase that has us hunt while
Out of form, stalk without enjoying it.
That nature hurts, and hurt keeps seeding
In between the devil’s balm
And the joke we make of healing.

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