The sight of crows does make me think
Of funerals and deep black ink,
Of crying babies, screaming wives
And people throwing at me, knives.

Now I remember hurt and loss
And picnics on the silver moss.
Laughter, hope for things to be,
I prayed to God with worn out knees

Is this what I have got to leave?
When I am abandoned, on the eve
Of death, my bedside empty still,
Watching birds on the empty sill.

My morbid thoughts fill me with fear
That soon I will no longer hear
The caw of crows, the hush of sea
When nothing's left of what was me.