|The moss covered trees
of the northern forest,
I sit along the brook.
has stood quiet here
never opened her eyes to the sun.
the symbols of truth and courage
reflect from ancient times,
my father and his stand before me.
Black wings shelter my thoughts.
Burnt to my soul as those before me
songs of life to draw you near.
Hear my calling, purity it holds
clean before you now.
Of all things great and many,
thought of the smallest stone.
I rise to the forest
that has never heard voice,
brush back the wings to my soul.....Crow
© Copyright 2004 Lane (UN: dlane at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
Lane has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
|Log In To Leave Feedback|