Short Stories and What Not



Wails of wind pass through the dead fields,

battles which cursed the lands.

Men, bled life and soul,

none remember except for the bones.

White specks which litter the uneven pastures.

Death still creeps there,

as the Ravens watch.

The mist rising, extending ghostly fingers.

Heroic deeds, forgotten,

in the passage of life.

The only ones who still measure its time,

are the watchful eyes of the Raven.


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