From where does the raven’s voice emanate
If not from the night’s solemn umbra?
From where does the winter’s frigid grasp emerge
If not from death’s savage soul?
For if not born of the night
A wicked apparition the raven be,
Propelled through the fevered minds of men
On wings of smoke inky and black
Its horrid cry shattering
The illusion of self and sanity.
Borne forth on winds malicious
The moans of death’s cruelest mistress dance.
If not born of death
A brutish and irreverent companion winter be
Icy tendrils clawing, tearing, ripping
Assailing those that dare to walk in the light.
For if not of the night
From death’s pale bosom might the raven alight?
And if not born of death’s darkest desire
Might, instead, from night’s frigid ire
Winter’s ravages take flight?
For the winter and raven
Alike, fly on wings of malice
And neither death’s nor night’s depravity
Need be spoken on
By a mind
Born of madness