Dressed for a funeral,
the omen clings to sky lines.
When the Raven falls
the gutter-grave has filled again.
The bell tolls not for thee,
thou art safe for just the moment.
The pendulum, axe-wielding
inches ever closer.
But when the ring finally
penetrates your dead ears
a feast of fresh meat
awaits the foreshadow.
Wisdom of the dead
drips from its beak
and thoughts of the living immerse
in its quills.
It cheers me much that you know how to spell. Adds to the enjoyment of poems like this. Read mine - Frost Flowers -Adeline
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Hi Daniel This such a tightly constructed poem, I have been re-reading it just for the pleasure of its compressed energy. There is something very satisfying about the raven's impersonal presence in every inch of space. After the two line opening with our human projection of the raven as omen, the raven suddenly flies and takes over the poem. Even your address to the reader cannot detract from the pure force and powerful impact of the predator. After staring the world into stillness, it acts decisively. Oh, what purity of intention!