Some nights are empty.
Others are filled with the crows soul.
Mimicking its masters emotions.
All knowing and all ever present.
Every chill felt through the icy wind.
Every ray felt spreading its warmth beyond the bounds of the known and unknown.
A tic that never falls silent but keeps repeating.
In waves it sloshes against the rocky shore of familiar coast.
The pattern might not be exactly the same but it is similar both it nature, and methods.
A feint caw, can be heard in the distance.
It desire to be heard is immeasurable.
Yet some night it does goes on silent.
Or is it we are just not listening.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This poem is fascinatingly mysterious and intriguing, it's nature echoes in the distance and I am silently listening to the caw of the crow! Thank you for your comments on my poetry, it is greatly appreciated. RoseAnn