Wild, the wind was blowing, and dark the sky it grew; Wild, the wind was racing, and dark the signs above. Strange, abhorrent things were born beneath weird, flashing lights. Strange and morbid deeds were done under the comet bright.
The crow will tell you in the woods there beside an abandoned grave. The old church, weed covered, still holds a bell. The cracked bell, now and again, on a windy day is heardāand on days it is not windy, we pretend not to hear the summons. The crow knows. Sit in the empty grave. He will tell you.
Tale Told 