Quickly I flew across the river

the grab the arrow

shot from my quiver

I wished my hide were like this stone

 wich stopped the arrow quickly thrown

for tears do little to help with aim

and I aks quite frequently if they help pain

my bow is stronger than my will

but not as versatile as my pointed quil

for ink spills down the flint stone head

and with out this tool, I'ld surely be dead

my string snaps jotly agaisnt the pull

my figners dripping in this lull.

my eye is quicker than my soul

and now this kill, it fill my bowl

my bow holds deeper the true sight 

as my arrow shout softly in its flight