ravens
The guns are talking.
I can hear them from across the plain.
I just keep on walking
Through sounds I can’t explain.
I walk the border of the forest.
I can hear its voice so plain.
There’s ravens, hundreds of ravens
Calling out the spelling of their name.
Their cries are answered by thunder.
Their flight is answered by black rain.
Their thoughts stare and wonder
About the hand that fashions pain.
And I’m caught between the echoes
Of ravens and canons and the condemned.
And a voice saying, “Consider the ravens,
Are you not better than them?”