The crying skies of the clear day
Pour down on me from the chambers
Of the ninth cloud. As it crashes,
I fall with it, deep into the
Depths of the ground where I so wish
You did not lie your weary
Head in sombre bliss and rest.
The nighttime wolves have come out to
Howl at the midday sun. In
Sorrow their silhouettes fill the
Sky so gracious yet grave. They are
Mourning a child so small yet
Stronger than the hurricane winds
And more beautiful than the moon.
She shall be missed. More than owls
To the early worm in the morn,
Than scorers to the winning net
And more than any person who
Has nay lost one could think able
As I fall from the clouds and hear
The wolves howl, she shall be missed.