Out of the hand of that ancient man,
the Raven flew to and fro.
Over a devastated land,
washed clean, for new darkness to grow.
That Crow, that black, black Crow,
devouring seed before new life.
That old Crow sees the man on the pole.
That old Crow, flies to and fro with spite.
Nowhere to land, that the man won’t see;
The seed will rise, to fly and dance free!
Copyright © Christopher Bunton | Year Posted 2019
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