Whispers of the Crow
perched upon the gallows beam
bathed in the hush of dying light
the crow waits, black as the last thought
before the noose tightens
his voice is gravel and omen
a riddle carved in bone
a cackle that cracks the silence
and lingers long after dusk
he has seen kings fall,
lovers weep, liars burn
his wings are stitched with sorrows
his beak, a blade for truth
the crow knows
oh yes, the crow knows
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