The Call

The Raven from high above

Did call

Alone I heard the call

Though all Kin

Were called

In his cry

A croak grown hoarse

Was the trumpets

Of war

The ground was dry

For long had the blood

Of heroes wet

It’ s thirsty tongue

The Kin die slowly

With a whisper and many silent

Why is this so?

For if the poet only

Hears the Raven

Then what children

Can hear the hero?

So my Kin rise up

Not with voice

Or pen

With steel and blood

For the Serpent tricked you

With fine cloth and bed

Quench the thirsty ground

Sake the poet’ s pen

For the children ask

Where is the hero?

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