When the wanting beckon of the corvid
rings along a yielding breath of air,
twining through wyrden sentinels
who, vigilant in a manner most astute,
refrain the unique call in sombre silence,
it is not joy of which I partake,
nor a flighty sense of hope,
nor a capricious sentiment of happiness
despite the character of this note,
so familiar to my native home.

Nay, it is a flowering sense of serenity --
of shadowed tranquillity in
knowing most intimately this wanting cry,
echoed in the percussion of the ancient Drums
and the tacit thrum of wyrden sovereignty
fostering every stygian petal and thorn.

Indeed, I pause to listen, the note formerly
so imprinted upon my memory
alighting within my mind with all anticipation,
unfettered and primal,
glorious and triumphant,
prescient of wyrden ascendancy
and assurance that the wyrden rose
thrives still, despite the ornery flame
that seeks most desperately
to sear its esoteric elegance from its very stem.

To the call I give response,
not by any particular articulation, but
by my very spirit, whose reciprocation
is naught but a laconic prayer,
a prideful claim of kinship
and a silent promise,
one that transcends all hindrance
and impediment that abound
before the wyrden rising,
so paltry and comedic
beneath the eye of Crow.