Walking through a cracking field,
desert, save for sprawling rows,
I stopped, as if to yield,
upon seeing a passing crow.
this gangly, burnt, and crying bird
hopped through the drying dirt.
I heard, through silence blurred,
his call, that seemed,
he was not hurt.
A crow is a bird of mystery,
loving the wisdom therein.
A crow is not to trust,
but nor is it to despise;
for though crows make use
of cunning, clever lies,
and speak of clearer, open skies,
and over falsehoods, others broke,
they do not pain,
cannot be envied the lonesomeness
of living loveless life again.
-
Author:
benevolentbluebabe (
Offline) - Published: June 26th, 2020 00:31
- Comment from author about the poem: When someone hurts you, forgiving them is difficult. It takes understanding why they did it, and the type of person they must be to have caused such pain. And yet, should they choose to act in a similar manner, hatred is merely replaced with pity for a life wasted.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 44
Offline)
Comments3
A fine write B. I quite like crows - their size, colour, etc.
Yes, I've seen one alone, or even a few, in places deserted at present, e.g. school playing fields.
I thought - enjoying having the fields all to yourself, you crows (and other birds).
Crows are awfully lonesome birds, yet there exists some dark beauty in solitude.
benevolentbluebabe,
A fine write.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts in the authorās comment box! Very sensible.
Lauraš»
Thank you!
An admirable comparison and well worded - showing crows can show us a lot - - thanks for these thoughts.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.