A bleating wry

Signet the little birdie sings

wings a sprawl from windy spring

buds to bloom along the pave

from depth its hearty bring,

to what the day it owes to know

the shine of waxing season

perilous to the jesters trek

footing that knows no reason,

hoof upon the soiled Earth

where sorrow is interceded

casting out to broken hearts

the net is wove and meted.

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