Scarecrow, murmur, tell the tale,
Of winds that howl and rains that wail.
Point the way, through dusk and dawn,
A silent guide till night is gone.
No voice to cry, no tears to weep,
Yet dreams he holds in straw-filled sleep
Of fields alive, of skies that hum,
Of harvests reaped when Autumn's come.
Since ancient times his spirit flies,
Carried forth in brooding skies.
Scarecrow stands, both proud and meek,
Telling tales the winds bespeak
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