The leaves are no longer talking.
The pines are fighting with swords,
the oaks are fighting with fists.
The black birds are coming, black as ravens,
they will smother the sun from our sight.
Some say it is a heard of sheep,
some say it is goats for the slaughter,
but it is not sheep, nor goats.
It is the standing army coming, steady
as the black hand of the sea.
