The Crow
I hear your repeated syllable
of loneliness and despair
come across this ploughed meadow
as I search for arrowheads.
Ancient bird,
watching from your pine perch,
remembering
the campfires
of those who brought us here
and their prayers
that went up like smoke in the wind
leaving only some stone intentions
to survive.
of loneliness and despair
come across this ploughed meadow
as I search for arrowheads.
Ancient bird,
watching from your pine perch,
remembering
the campfires
of those who brought us here
and their prayers
that went up like smoke in the wind
leaving only some stone intentions
to survive.
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