The Crows

Poemata LXXIII

Hungry birds must eat / their cries suggest a squabble / fellows once, they were. (Image: Sergey Kochkarev)

Black the night without the light of God to shine
Flying in the shade, whom for the darkness were made
Scavenging for what the day has left behind
Bright-eyed in that night, swallow remains of the light;

  Where the body is the eagles gather there
  Many birds have come, finding alike old and young
  Food we are become to creatures of the air
  Smallest with the great, not all yet know of their fate;

Murder, yes, the flock a sign of killing's stain
Clever birds must know, now as it was long ago
How to get the best from those untimely slain
Larger birds take time, finding the scene of the crime;

  Thousands come across the bound'ry, fain to feed
  The body-politic, scent of decay rising thick
  Sound the sound of air upon itself in speed
  Many rushing wings, deeply, with fear it now sings;

Singing for the dying as we do the dead
No even-song for joy, to us this now it must cloy
Black-birds die as well, the others must be fed
Flesh is flesh to them, they too are food, in the end.