Tuesday, July 3, 2012

The Raven's Song

Shadow on a foggy down,
Picking bones still warm,
Quiet fills the morning still,
Except that mournful croak,
Circle overhead they prowl,
Hopping amidst the shapes,
"It matters not who was right or wrong,"
Black feathers spoke that day,
"In the end a common grave,"
And that's the raven song.

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