Jet-black feathers dot well kept lawns,
sharp beaks peck the ground, searching for a juicy snack.
But these wings hold the weight of a country
on their flight, their eyes not a sign of death
and disaster, but of comfort and safety.

White stone shadows the courtyard, which has seen all
Ghosts and blood stain its memory
First a home for kings and queens
then a place of torture and death
forever the heart of the country

Interconnected, the feathers and the stone,
for if the glossy black feathers took to the air
a tower, within a tower
within a tower, falls
And a city is left for ruin.