The Ravens
A flock of ravens floats upon the air over their prey,
Like a looming black storm cloud of gloom,
In the later hours of the death of the day,
They fight each other for room,
In the melee, one is injured it falls,
Blood and gore fill the air,
The air is filled with their dire calls,
Little did the observers of this carnage care,
To them, it was merely a display of the nature of the raven,
Upon the hour they fled,
They were neither crazed nor craven,
They were happy and well-fed.
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