Blood Crow
By Cleve Sylcox

On a heap,
Of twisted death,
A crow sits,
All bloody and wet.

From his beak,
Red threads hang,
Black pearl eyes,
A cawing he sang.

You men of,
North and South,
Kill each other,
There’s no doubt.

I feed my children,
With your remains,
On the rocks lay,
Your blood and vain.

Into the night,
And into the day,
The crow kept cawing,
All along the way.

Battles fought,
On bloody fields,
Soldiers came,
Refusing to yield.

Land was raped,
Young woman folk too,
Some fought back,
Families were few.

In a swamp,
A legend was born,
On her back,
Wedding gown torn.

Blood lusting soldiers,
With nothing to gain,
Found death and destruction,
Deep merciless pain.

In the end,
What good was done,
Men all died,
No one had won.