</>In a flock of pearls, she was lost,
In a huddle of whites, she as found
Flying across the winter frost
Her wings made no sound
The wind alters her pace,
But not the heavens and its sweet, poignant glaze
In a flock of pearls, she was alive,
In a crowd of whites, she was skived
Her beak of long, flowing grace
Made her cumbersome wings shine in disgrace
But whatever she was, whatever she will be
She will always be a blackbird of sanguine beauty
And at last, she was found whilst she faded
Among the dead twigs of cruel fate – she was jaded!
I was there, a witness among weary eyes,
I watched her prop her wings and quipped: fly beautiful blackbird, fly.
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