HANNAH ROSE

I hear their ashen wings
Circling overhead.
That, which this flock brings,
Does dim the earth with dread.

A plague upon this soil.
A blight to rot the yield.
With fetid claw they roil
The seed upon the field.

I looked to you for care,
The guard upon the stall,
And realized with despair
That you were but a doll.

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