Robyn They called me Robyn. How did they know from the very start that the murmuring beat of my infant heart would not conform to the rhythms of my brothers'? One no different from the other, and insensible to the smart sting of thorns on the rocky ground. Each of us, it seems, has his part to play; theirs is earthbound, like our father's, their feet planted in the dirt. But I love the sky, its incandescence, its infinity, its colors. And they called me Robyn. The naming of children is a fine and subtle art. Parents must consider everything the name imparts. Was it merely accident or the instinct of a mother that mine hints at altitude and air, flight and feather? Whether luck or Fate--Fortune's sly, unyielding counterpart-- they called me Robyn. AND here is the man Who lives in the cottage That's built near the river That runs through the forest He calls himself Jack And here is Jack's axe With its bright-sharpened tongue And its bright-sharpened will And its head-banging anger Its terrible temper Its loathing of rest And this is Jack's saw With its sharp crooked teeth And its lunatic grin And its sickening song And insatiable greed And its obsessive need       To go forth and come back       To go forth and come back       To go forth and come back       To go forth and come back AND day after day after day after day Jack swings the sharp axe And pulls the sharp saw And curls the tongues And tramples the eyes And deafens the ears And brings the trees down He wants to know why He has seven sons When night after night after night after night He falls on his knees And clasps the scarred hands That hold the dark beads And bows the big head That holds the dark eyes And shuts out the noise Of his sons in their sleep And prays for a daughter Excerpted from The Seventh Raven by David Elliott All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.