The language of crows (Marcella Boccia)

They gather where the twilight fades,
black scribes upon the weary sky,
their voices stitched in broken shades,
a riddle sung, a last goodbye.
I hear them whisper, sharp and low,
in tones no lips have ever learned,
a tongue of sorrow, born of woe,
where every sound is lost, then burned.
They call to me, they chant my name,
as if they know the things I hide,
the secrets buried, burned in shame,
the silent grief I keep inside.
Yet still I listen, still I wait,
for words I’ll never understand—
a fate foretold, a sealed fate,
scratched in the dust by feathered hand.