Yet leaves a multitude whose sighs are proud. An oracle foretells a different end. There will be fires, and phoenixes that build Themselves from their own ashes. Sunlight falls So pale through thin slits when their coats resplend. Their beaks are knives, their hearts are girasols, Their wings are unfurling oriflammes, both chilled And fiery.
Birds writhe like whips.
Some die In shadow, some in brilliant light of day While stepping up the weak gusts of the skies. And with Icarus humbly sympathise. Yet traders in the marketplace beneath Pat their pouches hung on tautened strings. A grocer offers a huge red slab of cheese. In response, a tinker touts his earthenware.