Bird of Destiny

Cold is the air - still are the trees -

the clouds are streaked with red;

hushed are the birds as dusk descends

and here you lay your head.

A whirling bird above is shrieking -

the bird of destiny;

of midnight born, with plume as black -

unearthly thing to see.

A pawn you were in unseen quarrels

of vying deities;

this bird tells of what has been spoken -

the voice of their decrees.

Your shield is shattered - in your side

a spear has slaked its thirst;

though life is slipping, rest is here

now fate has done its worst.

These rivers were your cradle sought -

this chosen land your bride;

a rightful heir had come but you

were blinded by your pride.

Like bulls whose horns are locked in battle

you fought with armour crashing;

the plains resounded with the echo

of armies blindly clashing.

These fields were red, were filled with cries -

the rivers ran with blood;

this bird descended, soon you fell,

with dull and sickening thud.

O bird of destiny - oft seen

when skies are rumbling;

on tombstones perched, in weather foul,

and rooftops crumbling.

It knows no song of harmony

to charm the glades and dells;

its shrieking is the melody

that destiny foretells.

The final sleep is creeping near,

the scene is growing dim;

its noise a dull and distant blur -

your only passing hymn.

You see a dank enfolding fog -

hear chains that dimly clink;

a murky river to be crossed,

forgetfulness to drink.

Cold are your hands, still are your eyes,

vanished is your voice;

your bride is lost - the fitful gods

have made their final choice.