There were three ravens sitting on a tree,
An auld, twist'd Laokoon of wood
Or Christ on a distorted rood,
All three as black as they might be.

Branches they sat on hath grown spire-high,
Hollow and dry, but still defiant
As if some scrawny, formless giant
Reach'd all his arms to puncture the skye.

The roots, in turn, reach deeper down
Into mother earth's heart and bones,
Coil'd with flesh-eating conqueror worms
Form an inverted, chtonic crown.

O, nameless overseers, blacker than night!
Wisdom of aeons hath dwell'd in thy sight.
Thou hath beheld man's folly and might.

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