Crows

Found this buried somewhere. Written a lifetime ago, it seems.

To feel speechless upon the rooftops in far-off Verona 
As merchants squabble over inconsequential things 
For they'll never know the virtue of homeless beauty 
Gathering tattered paintings close to her chest 
And in the precincts of buried rubble 
She'll be the only one to hold you 
     To tell you that flesh 
Has the most insignificant sheen 

Croon for all that we've lost 
In wars and famine and the explosion of hearts 
Set to the fiery sadness of a winter 
     That never seems to end 
And to a summer who rides with grace 
For only a short time 
As brilliance becomes 
A necklace of flames 

Shoot them down 
     Those crows 
Shoot them down for me

Reviews

[Peter Joseph Swanson]

Marvelous!

[Emily B]

wipe the dust and cobwebs away and it seems brand-new . . . I know your voice has probably grown leaps and bounds since then, but it is a lovely piece of work