The Swan and the Crows

A lake, a swan gliding;

Moon on its feathers, reflecting

Its pure, stainless gleam, blinding;

Of heaven, the creature projecting.


Water thickens and darkens,

Ill-driven, risen arm

The pure swan threatens;

The clammy contacts the stainless harm.


The fingers, their growth,

To crows they turn,

And to their name's worth,

Stinging beaks, they burn.


Unaffected, the swan glides,

Black stains on his coat.

Little by little, the dark the white hides.

Heavier, the swan drowns;

The remaining pure feathers float.


The swan, forgotten,

A new being it now is

That looms around, rotten

Oh, the swan I am ended like this!