Thirty-three crows strut crudely before me,
Their black beaks pounding the ground;
Echoes of a distant thinking
Rebelling against the wind.
Thirty-three far-flung voices climbed the sky,
Their stained hands groping plaintively near;
Spirits of the far-away land
Absently rasping the storm.
Thirty-three students prone upon their loss,
Hemorrhage in the shock of undue vacancy;
Stunned gasps rasp our ears
With a hollow astonishment.
© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman