The birds crow a weeping melody, trees clean of leaves.

My sickness is spreading till my knees can’t withstand.

The weight of my fears and the weight of my dreams,

Crush and unravel me in their demands.

You say that you’ll love me when crows stop their mourning,

And for what I’ve gone through, you’ll always be brave.

But will you feel that when I’m dead in the morning,

Who will you love when I go to my grave?