The Crow swallows the Swallow over the plantation of snow.
A child and a brain battle royal under the crow in the pasture until the mind overpowers the immature being.
The crow begins to sing "Death to the Prince the king has be Born".
The crow swoops down to be perched upon the broad shoulders of the Kahn.

His Majesty howls to the victors as does the Crow.
He the epitome of mankind, dies to pried, fear, selfishness, and mediocrity.
They become utensils to eat entrées of Humility, Confidence, Kingship, and Responsibility.
None from his past lingers with his Highness except for the Crow seated on shoulder touching the sun.

The left hand of the Czar snatches the only certainty of life by the throat.
The Crow caws and claws at the uncertainty of eternal darkness.
With both hands he breaks the neck and feast upon his new found endurance.

With immortality in his belly he lives to die forever.
While holding the sands in his hands he his is a King remembered in time.
When the dust airs he will die with athanasia in his eyes

A Kings word forever written in time