Jacob Garbe




In the rusty call of crow:
the mist-shrouded plain of Talindreal.
Those feathers,
Turning legion colors under Sun's blank eye,
Holds a night sky that shone in times
When magic walked the lives of men.

Rock-walker took
the crow's sweet gliding call,
Left it but a dust-choked cough.

In the croaked cry of watchful raven
Echoes the lost sighs of silver trees,
Whose silver leaves drank moonlight
before the loss of innocence.
The raven's wise eyes that once held
The shining light of elder stars
Darkened when smoke-drinker
Put the groves to torch.
Their legacy:
The obsidian glint
of those hardened by loss.

In the stark form of the blackbird
Is the memory of a land once rich
In that which binds myth to man forever.
Those wings beat air that once sang
With a power metal minds cannot grasp.

They were robbed, stripped.
The thief-in-night took their gifts,
And left them ghostly silhouettes
against the bone-white sky.




Author Bio





"Blackbird" Copyright © 2003 Jacob Garbe. All rights reserved.
Published by permission of the author.


This page last updated 10-30-03.

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Victorian Elegance