Where does the crow flee to? When his nest is cold?
When his eggs are dry? When his food is scarce?

Where can the crow escape? From the taunting caws of his fellows?
Away from the predators, stealthy and more?

What joy can it know? After all, it is only a crow.
The joy of full flight? A single night without visions of fright?

To you the crow is an omen. A messenger of death.
The sign of dread. The mark of decline.

To the crow, he is but a crow. His eyes seem soulless, but he wishes the same as you.
His calls are shrill, yet he calls out for hope. He flies abruptly, fleeing from his troubles.

How different are we from the crow? I can infer, but I can never know. What I find strange is not the likeness of the crow, but one single show.

And that is that I am the crow.