Bare, black branches
And forlorn grey sky
For my burial blanket.
You, vultures,
Feast on my carcass,
Tear at my fur,
Pull apart sinew and bones.
Your ravenous shrieks
Are my funeral pyre.
Take my body in shreds and pieces,
Stuff it down your throats,
Then lift me up on your wing,
Carry out your final task.
Help my heart soar
Free of Earth’s gravity,
Teach my spirit to fly.
I’m going home.
You have my flesh
As your golden coin.
Return to your nests
With full stomachs.
Feed your babes
With what was once I.
©Olga Gavrilovskiy 2015

death, crows

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Olga Gavrilovskiy
over 4 years

Thank you, Martin. That is what happens to the flesh. I do hope and believe that the soul, once freed from the flesh moves on to beyound. As wonderful and beautiful as this world is, there's got to be more. The notion of Heaven and Hell are outdated for me, but Home, perhaps.

Robert L. Martin
over 4 years

That was a very real poem. That's what really happens when you die. You become just a piece of carrion for the vultures to feed on. Very good, Olga.

Olga Gavrilovskiy
over 5 years

Thank you, Cory :-)

Cory Garcia
over 5 years

Wow! Amazing piece sister poet

Olga Gavrilovskiy
over 5 years

Indeed, Barb. The poem was inspired by crows feasting on a run over cat on the road in front of my window. I empathised with the animal's fate, placed myself in its place, by the time the poem was finished I was reminded of that same ritual you speak of. Thank you for reading and reflecting :-)

Barb Clarke
over 5 years

Reminds me a little of a ritual for the dead called "Tibetan Sky Burial." It is still practiced in Tibet by monks. The vultures fly the body, thus the soul as well to a sky heaven to await reincarnation. Well written poem.

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