Morana & the Crow

Morana slips into her robes, ready to harvest. There's a sick crow, dying in the forest. Out she wanders the earth, There is no room for mirth. This harvesting she does in silence. The crow suffers loudly, hence, Morana hears the sound of cries, And wanders toward to cut the ties. Mother Crow, she knows what is to come, And so her heart is already numb. She flies away from her nest, Leaving Morana to deal the rest. Defenseless, oblivious, the crow cries louder. Endless, righteous, Morana creeps closer. The forest is silent, making way, For Morana, ready to take away. Her gentle hand placed upon the crows wings, Has closed them and soothed all things. Guiding that thread with her hands, She severs it, Mother Crow, back, lands. Reaping her harvest, a beautiful golden thread, She returns to wander untouched spread.