On ebony wings, out of the sky,
A giant shadow on the ground.
Into the morning it does fly,
Circling round and round.
The morning silence brutally raped,
By alien vocal chords.
Flying low over desert scapes,
No granite river he can't ford.
Nightmare creature, from tales of old,
Wings four feet, from tip to tip.
Countenance stygian and wickedly cold,
No word appears, on my sunburned lips.
Off it flies, to the mountains high,
My eyes following in awe.
Disappearing slowly in a clear blue sky,
Out in the wild, theres a different law.
February 24th,2016
Twenty Nine Palms California.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nice imagery - well done