RAVEN Poem by Dane Zajc

Devours
the star eyes at daybreak.
The ambrosial part of the night face,
cooling itself on high pillows.
He dives on it, the night bed,
a black bird rapping.

When he flies, he flies through solitude.
As through a hollow within a hollow,
that escorts him, perpetually recreating itself.

When he swoops down
his wings imitate
the voice of wind. Of a scythe.
As if the wind plunged down from a mountain.
As if the scythe cuts air.

At times he flies in twos.
Even then his sailing is but
falling into circles of solitude.
She
keeps a quiet distance.
Their wings don't touch.
They fly in the space of
two circles.

He sings in three ways.
In three distinctive tongues.
All three are meant for himself.
For his ear, for conversations with the self.
No imitator, this bird.
If he imitates, he echoes himself,
his voices, intricate
language of curved calls.

When he flies low
on his wings glimmers
a black defiance of the kingdom of
mystery.