A raven sits on a withered spruce tree;
Alone, in silence, with nothing to see.
No worries or cares about anything,
So why is it quiet if it’s free to sing?
The wind whispers softly in a lonesome tree;
Only creakings and groanings without any leaves.
Across the snowy plains it moves so swiftly,
No kites, grass, or ravens to keep it company.
The raven once loved another you see,
They played in the warmth of summer breeze.
Then the cold warlock brought a bitter freeze,
And all the leaves fell and summer did flee.
But the ravens stayed put, enduring everything,
Until one raven died, without any warning.
Now the raven sits, alone and uncaring;
Waiting for summer to start his heart thawing.
Perhaps he will love another, given enough time;
But there will never be another to be his rhyme.