The Raven's Prophecy

The raven was a mystery ever since the dawn of history.

He sang with a lovely voice of future and fate.

His melodious prophecy the gods did hate.

They changed his voice to a rasping croak.

The birds all laughed at the cruel joke.

But non knew and non foresaw,

The wisdom that would come from this blackbird's maw.

The Raven once gloried flew to earth low,

No better that a thieving crow.

But still prophecy's he spoke,

In a voice now harsh and broke.

To a quiet field the raven goes.

What will take place there only he knows.

Perched at the top of a skeleton tree,

An icon of doom for all to see.

And as the sun climbs into the sky,

Two armies meet to battle and die.

The black bird watches as the weapons clash, 

Already he knows the men who will return home or not,

Who would be heroes and who would rot.

The armies draw apart one in victory one in defeat.

The Raven flew over the carnage field,

And landed on a bloodied shield.

He let out a haunting croak, but non awoke.

For they had all died just as he had prophesied.

Through history the lonely bird flew.

He shared his prophecies with a few,

But only in riddles, bits and pieces.

He spoke of fate, floods and golden fleeces.

Flying through the tattered gloom,

And croaking in a voice of doom.