There was a crow,
by the old church,
who screamed and hollered,
that its stomach hurt.
“I guide your dead,
I protect your clerks,
And yet none of you,
Can feed me bread?”
said the crow,
guardian of the dead.
Then came a boy,
tears down his face,
Dressed in black,
no adult by his place.
“I hear your cries,
I know your pains.
I will come to church.
Full will be your stomach.”
The boy made good on his promise,
limped through the morning snow.
Offered, in his cracked hands,
bread, he gave the crow.
The dawn morphed to weeks,
yet still the boy came.
In his sweaty fists,
crumbs aplenty,
doughy splendor.
The crow’s hunger eased.
The crow grew guilt
in its heart,
because it had nothing
to offer this boy,
who gave his all.
“Sit down, young man,”
cooed the crow.
“I have lived well and long.
I shall tell you what I know.”
So weeks turned into months,
yet still the boy remained.
Legs crossed, heavy heart,
a crow by his place.
The crow spoke of ills abated,
of nightmares bested,
of love sated,
of breath bated,
of homes tainted,
of friends deserted,
of beasts burdened,
of lands burned,
of people scorned.
All of this he told,
and of this,
the boy’s mind beheld.
A library his heart held.
So months turned into years,
the boy a mule with books.
Quills, pencils, papers
made the boy’s legs quake.
When he toppled down a hill,
with mirth, the crow shook.
“Lad, you’ll break your neck
carrying them like that.
Come, I know a place,
where you can get a sack.”
A tree, the crow
led the boy to.
Roots long, gnarled,
and, with age,
bark snarled.
Branches curled,
leaves withered.
It sang to the boy,
“Don’t dither,
come hither,
lest thou shiver
like an archer’s quiver,
and the bird of death
carries thee on its back.”
In it, years of piled treasure.
Feathers, flowers, and fetters.
As well, of course,
An old rucksack.
Weathered, dusted,
and patched.
The boy whooped,
the crow sang,
the tree danced,
and night turned to day.
Still, the boy did not leave,
and neither did the crow.
They watched as flowers
turned to snow.
As a fragile fawn
became a doe.
Soon, the boy grew,
and the crow saw him anew.
Gone was the boy,
an adult in his place.
Icicles in the air
roughened his voice,
and the boy,
no, man,
said he had no choice.
“I must migrate,
as you once did.
Leave my place of birth,
and further my knowledge.
I hope to be wise,
I hope to be rich.
For that, I must leave,
past the church,
past the gates,
past the trees,
past the graves,
past life,
past death,
past this place.”
The young man packed,
A burly, torn sack.
He hoped for wealth,
and the crow its snacks.
“You might not recognize me
when I’ve returned.
My face might be different,
worn down by the world.”
The crow,
still in shock,
rattled its head.
Where was the boy
who gave him bread?
Instead, this human,
stood in his stead.
Yet, just the same,
he wanted for wealth,
and wanted for bread.
“Little hatchling,
grain of my eye,
make me not recognize you?
I dare you to try.
You have the softest hair,
like a mouse.
The smartest mouth,
as many would grouse.
And yet none compares
to your wise heart.
So go on, bird,
spread your wings.
Find all the greatest shiny things.
I’ll still be here,
at the church.
I’ve already lived.
I know my worth.”
“You’ll forget me not?”
“As long as there are forget-me-nots.”
Summers smoldered,
winters dreaded.
Autumns fallen,
springs bled.
Willows fell,
houses toppled,
bloodlines ended,
and lands hollowed.
Still, the man did not return.
The crow was pecking at the earth,
looking for morsels of worth.
No worm could fill his hollow.
It longed for bread to swallow.
It turned its feathered head
towards the tree,
then towards the rows of dead.
Beside the graves,
flowers of the brightest blue.
The crow cooed
at the nostalgic hue.
Where was its boy,
who grew to a man?
The crow grew old,
this keeper of the dead.
Yet it longed for the life
of its hatchling’s eyes.
The darkest part worried that
the man was not alive.
Then, one spring,
the tree whistled,
leaves bristled,
branches whipped
the innocent air.
“The man returns
to this hallowed earth!
The boy, now grown,
has learned his worth!
Look, over there,
a beautiful shadow.
Come hither,
don’t dither,
lest thou break
like an arrow
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
in an archer’s quiver.”
The crow, feathers grey,
cawed at the tree to quit it.
“I am too old,
too tired,
to be woken so soon.
The corpses beneath
can sleep past noon.
If the dead,
who provide no bread,
have no obligation
to join the conversation,
then neither do I.
Calm yourself, oak.
The man is gone,
like the dawn,
and no happiness
will be spawned
by your prattle,
so don’t babble
like cattle
when brought to slaughter.
The man is gone…
The boy is gone…
No happiness
shall ever spawn.”
“Quit thy dramatics,
feathery buffoon!
Happiness has come
before afternoon.
See there,
the child,
bounding up
the hill,
like a hare.
Oh, what a sight
to bare.”
The crow cawed,
ruffled,
and pecked at bark.
The man, returned.
What a lark!
Yet hope turned its beak,
and old eyes did seek
a shadow so familiar.
Instead, disappointment.
Yes, this human did have
an old rucksack
on their back.
Yes, the human
was the same size
as the man when
he left the church,
but nothing else
was of note,
of worth.
Until, that is,
the bird heard a cry.
A simple sound.
Could it be a lie?
“Crow!
Where are your cries?
I have returned to church,
and I have returned with bread
Soon your stomach will be fed!”
Happiness, this is not.
It is joy!
What joy!
Like a child’s
first toy.
Its chick has come,
its darling boy!
“I hear you,
I hear you!
Come, end my pain.
I could soak the earth
with my water of agony.
Here I thought
I had lived a tragedy.
Yet my boy has returned!
Forget the bread,
forget it all!
I only wish for my child
to be back in my arms.”
The shadow,
boldened by the sun,
broke out into a run.
The crow jumped down
from its place,
and jumped with joy,
hopped in place.
“My hatchling,
my chick,”
it muttered erratically.
“My darling,
my sunling.
The perfect loaf of bread.”
The shadow grew nearer,
and details built upon them.
The crow’s elation dimmed,
and anger vined instead.
This was not the boy,
now man,
who left the church,
past life,
past death,
to seek his worth.
She had the figure
of a young pine.
Hair thick
like a thicket
during spring.
She bore a smile,
which befit the lass.
Crinkles at the corners
spoke of painful pasts.
Still,
she was not he,
even with her trickery.
The crow,
ladened with regret,
sniffed,
turned,
and pecked at the plants.
“I do not know you,”
the crow said.
“Now leave me be,
I look for bread.
Crust or crumbs,
it hardly matters.
Begone,
be well,
be out of my sight,
or you shall know
a grave guard’s might.”
“But you do know me,”
the young woman said.
“I once went by Alex,
but that name is now dead.
It fits a grave more
than it does fit me.
Do you recall a young boy
who fed you bread?
No adult by their side,
no love in their place,
forgotten, forsaken,
left in disgrace?”
“This boy I know,
this boy I knew.
How can you be that boy,
who I saw grew?
He had the darkest eyes,
and the smartest mouth.
the softest hair,
and the wisest heart.”
She bent to her knees,
unafraid of the bees.
Her stare as strong
as the dancing trees.
“My eyes are still dark,
my hair is still soft.
And I assure you,
my mouth is still smart.
But what once was in,
is now on display.
Surely there is wisdom
in refusing to play?
In stages shunned?
In masks abandoned?”
“Abandoned, abandoned,”
The crow cawed,
shaking its shelled maw.
“That was the boy’s theme.
His identity, his essence.
His motif.
And you’re telling me,
This woman before me,
Is that same boy?
That same motif?”
It squawked, flapped,
and cocked its head.
“Well, who do I call you,
this woman before me?
Not boy, not man,
Not the child once before me.”
Tears filled her eyes.
She bowed her head.
“You called me hatchling,
Before our paths parted.
Birds of a feather,
equally forgotten.”
The crow swallowed a cry
as its heart regrew.
Its hatchling,
its darling,
now anew.
It jumped on her leg,
and, once she looked,
the bird said,
“Forgotten? Nonsense,”
squawked the crow.
“We remembered each other,
did we not?
I told you tales,
and you fed me bread.
We survived winters
by fires.
Endured summers,
by lakes.
How could we be forgotten,
when, by each other, we placed?
And a crow keeps a promise,
just as we never forget a face.
Startled, I was,
by your fine features,
and hair like lace.
But now I see it,
my darling hatchling.
Your hair is like a silk sheet,
and your mouth crinkles with smiles.
Your heart is bruised,
perhaps even shattered.
Yet bruises do not prevent blood,
just as pain does not stop wisdom.
In fact,
it makes the facts
all the more fearsome.”
The woman cried,
though little blue in her tears.
Her knees shook
with deep-rooted fears.
Cheeks darkened,
lips parted,
and cries clattered.
“And here I thought
you’d forsake me,
or worse,
forget me.”
“Look there, silly lass,
though grown you may be.
There are forget-me-nots
by our place,
by the tree.
Forsaken? Nonsense.
Safe here,
you will always be.”
tipping! Please drink some water, eat a vegetable, and rest well.
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