• "It's safe in here," said the feathered one,
    Her arms spread proud and wide,
    "These walls are thick—the door is steel;
    "No better place to hide."

    To guard the windows there were bars
    Of faceless names and words
    Her heart was glad, her eyes they beamed;
    This fortress—it was hers!

    Outside the world around her raged,
    With countless people lost.
    Outside was cruel; in here was peace;
    So very worth its cost.

    For all the years and all the tears
    Were safely shut without;
    She'd built a place of peace and power,
    A place to banish doubt.

    For none could come inside these walls
    Without permission hers,
    To break her spells or shatter hopes
    And cast a deadly curse.

    And so she sat upon her throne
    Of Anonymity,
    Until a knock came at the gate,
    And thought, "Who could it be?"

    For many foes had done their best
    To pierce her palace walls.
    Yet stood the walls and yielded not,
    Granting instead their falls.

    Again the quiet rapping heard,
    Again her query tried.
    For few had simply thought to knock;
    Most others simply pried.

    And so she flew to view her guest,
    And through the portal peek.
    Behold the sight! An ugly bird,
    So pitiful and weak!

    A crow stood there, with eager calm
    Its eyes a glancing 'round.
    Its beak was black, and when it cawed,
    It made a sickly sound.

    The plumage on the crow was coarse,
    Its eyes both small and black.
    The better part of decency would
    Dictate, "Throw it back."

    She drew away in some disgust,
    "What means this bird so foul?
    "To tread upon my sacred steps
    "And at my doorstep howl?"

    But pity touched her hallowed heart,
    And as the bird stood there,
    She felt a pang of sorrow grow
    For it was only fair,

    To give, at least, a gentle word
    To one who'd traveled far,
    To gaze upon her shining home
    As if it were a star.

    And so she dressed in robes of whim,
    A donned a favourite mask,
    To welcome in the ebon being.
    She set about her task.

    For who was she to foolishly
    Expose her truest form?
    Nay, nor to this stranger; but rather stay
    Within her shelter warm.

    And so into the antechamber
    She let the motley crow,
    And perched behind those faceless bars
    To let discussion flow.

    And thus they talked—for years it seemed
    Though she spoke less than he,
    The time it passed—the crow he left,
    But oft returned to see,

    If e'er she had determined yet
    To doff her mask so fair,
    To show to him her truest face
    Beneath a crown of hair.

    The days they went a flying by,
    The leaves their colours turned,
    And many a day at her window saw
    The crow; he had returned.

    Most every time she'd let him in—
    A place she had arranged—
    And every time, most subtly,
    She found the crow had changed.

    The plumage coarse, the eyes of coal
    No more a thing of fright.
    This bird was rare—in it was trust,
    In it was something right.

    Alas, though she respected it,
    The crow had come too near,
    He'd passed the door, and then the hall;
    The feathered one felt fear.

    "It's safe in here, behind this mask,"
    She told herself aloud.
    "For though one pass my walls of stone,
    "They cannot breach this shroud."

    "Nor see my face, nor know my name,
    "Or find what's truly me."
    "For I've all power, if I am naught
    "But Anonymity."