Born of the woods, the wind, the storm, Where feathered darkness takes human form

A crown of shadow, wing, and flight, She stands between the day and night. With pale gaze fixed on paths unknown, An avian queen upon her throne. Red poppies bloom amidst the gray, Where fleeting spirits drift away. The winter forest, cold and bare, Breathes secrets to the misty air. Born of the woods, the wind, the storm, Where feathered dark takes human form.