The streets are white and crisp and new.
My thoughts turn to the crows,
And the book you gave to me.
Their feet that concern you.
But I think of the youth that is still present in your eyes.
The crows are everywhere here.
Their blackness only makes me long.
Long for your golden hair.
Your golden hair I seek to touch,
And your golden voice I long to hear.
Your golden voice.
Not the harsh call of the crow,
But it has the same wisdom.
Only with sweetness.
With tenderness.
The seasons are reversed.
The distance is the same,
As the crow flies.
But now I'm here.
And you are there.
Listen for the crow.
Hear what he has to say.
For I have whispered to him,
And asked that he tell you,
How much I miss you, want you, and love you.
