There is a tombstone. Engraved in the stone are words I cannot read. On the carved cross a corvid sits. The grave is empty below.
The corvid sits upon the carved cross. It is an old and weathered stone. The grave below is empty.
The corvid waits over the cryptic script. He’ll sing to him who willing dies. White plumed, a dove then sings for him to rise.
The grave is empty. What’s dead will die. What’s freed from death may fly.
An omen is a mighty thing, and dark were fortunes told about the church hid in the vale.
Tale Told 