In the mist where shadows creep,
The Raven watches, silent and deep.
On totem poles where faces gaze,
He guards the spirits of ancient days.
The rain falls soft, the forest hums,
As time stands still, the past becomes.
The Raven’s cry is low and clear,
Echoing stories only he can hear.
Carved in wood, the faces speak,
Of wisdom buried, long and meek.
But in the Raven’s eyes, they live,
A promise — to remember, to forgive.
Between the rain and whispered trees,
The Raven holds the ancient keys.
He knows the tales the winds still tell,
Of forgotten lands, where spirits dwell.
In the stillness of the rain, the Raven’s song calls,
Guiding us back to the wisdom that falls.
