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A recorded reading of “Flight of the Crow”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
The flight of the crow, dark wings unfurled, carries it to the fires that torment this world. A scene of devotion, shaped in the rose, its petals burn bright where the fire grows. Shimmering in heat waves, a fevered dance, lashing out to the unknown, a desperate chance. The followers kneel, their forms adorned— beauty and pain forever bound, forlorn. For in the heart of the flame, they find their creed, a devotion that consumes, yet fills their need. A crow circles high, its shadow below etching a path where the heat waves flow. Following the scene of wild life untamed, a chaotic landscape where nothing is named. A scheme that fits not, arbitrary at best, a skink scuttles by, indifferent to the rest. What is the meaning of this flight, this path? A journey through torment, a trial by wrath. The crow seeks a truth, elusive and rare, yet finds only shadows that shimmer and flare. Devoted followers, shaped in the rose, burn in the fire, yet refuse to close their eyes to the torment that beckons them near, for beauty and pain have always been dear. The wild life watches, a silent crowd, fitting into schemes where chaos is loud. Yet in the madness, the arbitrary skink slips through the cracks where meanings shrink. For who are we, in the fire’s embrace? Devoted followers, lost in the chase. The crow flies on, with a desperate cry, seeking the meaning beyond the sky. But perhaps the torment is the only guide, a path to nowhere, with nothing to hide. The crow flies on, the rose petals burn, in this chaotic dance, we all must turn.
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