Beneath the mournful winter's sky, so gray,
Where children of the grave in silence lay,
A Scarecrow stands, its arms outstretched and bare,
Whispers to the souls that linger there.
Its burlap face, by frost and time worn thin,
Holds secrets of what lies beyond our kin.
Its eyes, like hollow moons, see without sight,
Guiding lost spirits through the endless night.
Listen, O children, beneath the frozen ground,
To the unspoken words, the Scarecrow's sound.
Though bodies sleep in earth's cold, silent bed,
Your journeys, like the wind, still move ahead.
In the stark realm where mortal eyes see naught,
Your essence dances free, unbound, uncaught.
Winter's day, with its icy grip so keen,
Cannot confine what's meant to be unseen.
Embrace the stillness, the peace within the cold,
For within it, the mysteries of life unfold.
The Scarecrow guards not just the fields of corn,
But also the place where spirits are reborn.
Its message, silent as the falling snow,
Speaks of transitions, letting old fears go.
Though your voices are lost to the living air,
Know that in silence, we find the words to care.
Fear not the journey through the shadow's vale,
For love, like light, through the darkest night shall prevail.
In the heart of winter, beneath the frost and rime,
The Scarecrow stands sentinel until the end of time.
So heed the wisdom that the Scarecrow imparts,
For it speaks directly to your eternal hearts.
A guide, a guardian, through the longest night,
Leading all souls to the dawn's forgiving light.