18 April 2004

(26) The Old Raven

Wind ruffles the feathers of the weary raven,
Time gently kills him from inside,
For with time, like us all, he must abide,
The home of the raven is a great vast land,
Of trees, dust, sun and sand,
With wise yellow eyes, he regards the dusty plain,
The ground calling out, yearning, for a single drop of rain,
The bird fancies he hears the call of another,
Someone he holds dear, a sister, a brother?
A friend? or a lover?
No one could know,
Except the old crow,
With a rapid beating of wings, he takes to flight,
With the hope in his heart, his quarry he may sight,
Over the thousands of miles he roams,
The sands he sifts and the beaches he combs,
The mountains he scouts,
Where hot lava often spouts,
And across oceans fair,
And barren deserts he dared,
Then the raven came to the end of his flight,
Where on foreign soil it is now night,
Wind swept lands are all that surround him,
Not much can be seen in the moonlight so dim,
The phantasm that he chased across the many, many miles,
Has merely all this time had him beguiled,
For he chased a mirage that was not really there,
But the old raven lies without a care,
For he has seen the world all over,
And what a beautiful journey it has been,
All the wonders and the sights he has seen,
For he knows now there was nothing he had lost,
And all has been found,
As he lies there dying on the ground,
The heavens open up over the strange new land,
And provide a display, nothing less than grand,
And as he softly dies,
No others mourn him, save for the crying in the skies.