The crow came from north, with no sword at his hand,

His feathers black as coal, and eyes like burning sand,

He perched upon the oak, with gaze both sharp and bold,

And cawed a mournful song, that pierced the heart and soul.

No knight was he in armor bright, nor lord in castle tall,

But messenger from distant land, to heed the Raven's call,

His beak held no message writ, but spoke in ancient tongue,

Of battles fought and lost, and songs yet to be sung.

The wind it howled and moaned, as the crow took to flight,

And vanished in the mist, that cloaked the world in night,

But still his song did linger on, in heart and memory,

Of things that were, and things to come, and all that was to be.