“The Unkindness of Ravens”
We march for miles and you follow us.
We fight in many battles and you follow us.
We sometimes die where we stand, you are with us.
We can see you fly overhead.
We hear your calls and you wait.
You wait like death with patience and unkindness.
Our dead litter ground like the leaves of the forest glen.
You stand on our dead's heads and pick out their eyes.
We pass the ones who have died before us.
You call to us and you remind us we're next.
I see a piece of flesh in your beak and you fly away.
You stand wait sometimes as we march by,
on horseback and foot we march, till the next battle or war, you feast on our dead.
Your unkindness is not wanted or warranted.
Yet you offer no apology and you give no sympathy for the feast on our dead.
We don't seem to have time to care, as for us you are just another hazard and desecration.
Our graves are not sacred to you, they are just a buffet for mergers and not for dukes or kings or lords to scrutinize over.
Your unkindness is not wanted, but present as the stench of death covers the field of battle and war as a red carpet to the afterlife and the graveyard.
Good night, Dear Ravens, you are my company and my bed as I lie motionless and still and dead.
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