And that horse looked at me with its one open eye
And it whispered "You're late," and I asked "Where, or why?"
It just stamped its hoof once and the ground opened up
And I fell through the roots of a grandmother's cup
Of tea she'd been sipping since 1943
And she offered a sip, but the cup wasn't for me
It was full of the names of the children she'd lost
To the war and the winter and the terrible cost
Of loving a thing that was born to be brief
Like a snow on the tongue or a cut on a leaf
I drank it all down and I knew every name
And I felt all the guilt and I felt all the shame
Then I sneezed and the names flew right out of my nose
And they formed a small flock of what once had been crows
But they weren't really crows, they were more like the thought
Of a bird that was barely and barely was not
They pecked at my shadow and tore it to shreds
And they wove it a nest for their unborn heads
Then they laid an egg that was heavy and warm
And it hatched in the palm of a terrible storm
...