In a long-forgotten city, Lived hordes of crows, Not omens of grim, But rather of jolly. When the crows sang their songs, Even if hoarse and loud, The city was brim Full of glee. Yet in time and circumstance, The crows would grow silent, Whether because they lost whim Or from melancholy. The city would lose its life, Its silence, rather bleak... A veil of gloom, All feeling meek... Broken by a slight swoosh, Followed by a booming harsh cry, The crows perk up And resume their cacophony. In joy and elation, The city sings along, Its atmosphere propped up, Breaking the quiet monotony. Yet the one who called out, Had left behind no legacy... Except for a single Raven's feather, Revealing their identity... And so when the crows go silent, Whether from fatigue or feeling, They all turn to the skies, For their inspiration from mythology.
Stories are told all around us. We simply need to choose to listen.