Their songs are passed from cloud to cloud
As haloed rainbows, curved from sound.
Their words are rhymed and timed to hide
The storms unleashed across the Earth.
Their songs are shaken from their wings,
And, feathers flicking, ring and ring
The ancient notes so clear and pure.
They sing in bliss and perfect pitch.
One note to bleed the working poor,
The next to drain the moorland peat.
A simple tune to stoke the fears:
Unheard the prayers, the cries, the grief.
Their songs they sing from distant skies,
As old as air, untouched by care.
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