He spirals down from a boundless height,
Feathers black as an endless night.
With a beak like steel and eyes like fire,
He circles low, then rises higher.
A flash of wings through the evening gloom,
A fleeting shade, a mark of doom.
Each stroke of flight, each silent call,
Binds shadow tight like a woven thrall.
The air grows cold where he unfurls,
His wingbeat slow, his feathers curl.
Moonlight glints on a sable crest,
A midnight king, in darkness dressed.
But as he nears the forest floor,
Feathers turn to cloak once more.
Limbs emerge, strong and lean,
An ancient face, both sharp and keen.
Raven-dark hair falls down his spine,
With shadowed eyes, fierce and fine.
A man of midnight, strange and stark,
Yet bearing still the raven’s mark.
Once winged and wild, now bound to land,
The raven gone, yet close at hand.
In human guise, yet skies in sight,
A soul still tied to endless night.
