[Raven] Hymn for the desolate.

[rubaiyyat]

These are the days of black coffee and the scent of myrrh.
When the dusk winds blow, we drink crow tea
and beat our wings into the shadow.
We who are left plant feet down
upon the dust of this persevering world.
Dress ourselves in black
to honour us.

What are we, when we are not shadows, shades,
or stories told to unbelievers?
When we cannot dip into ourselves, as an inkwell,
and hide secrets between the glim stars?

I am the revenant whose body is quill pens.
I am the slow glide breeze from the sullen west.
I am the dust in summer twilight
and I am eternal on the face of the world.

Now are the days of long cold bells
and songs unmeant to understand.
Now we wrap ourselves in canvas blankets
and call the painters forth.

These are the days most important to breath.

Sing in the shining twilight, how far away
we have gone from ourselves, how far
we have flown back in.
Remember me, whose bright eyes remember everything.
From ash comes ink, and words, from ink,
and we will be connected once again.