I sat the other day reading my paper
a day like so many before
and thought about all the dreams you’ve dreamt
that one after the other have ended
Then I saw a picture of a girl
with a wingshot crow in her arms
She runs through the woods
as fast as she possibly can
And she runs with fluttering locks
she runs on slight legs
and she prays and begs and hopes and believes
that it must not be too late
The girl is small and her hair is so fair
and her cheek is so flushed and red.
And the crow is clumsy and croaking black
and in a moment it’s completely dead
But the girl she runs for the life
of a wingshot bird in her arms.
She runs towards safety and warmth
for that which is right and true
And she runs with glistening eyes
she runs on slight legs
For she knows that it’s true, what daddy has said:
If there’s life it’s never too late
And I started to tremble in pain and distress
and I shook with fright and dread
For I knew completely plainly and clear
that the picture I’d seen was of me
For my hope is a wingshot crow
And I am a running child
who thinks that someone can help me still
who thinks that someone has answers
And I run with pounding heart,
I run on slight legs,
and I pray and beg, even though I know
it’s already completely too late