A Poem Rumi Forgot to Complete

A world of blood and feathers It was a familiar figure.  He knew it– even from just its shadow, yes he knew it. How could he not know it?-- just as surely as he knew his own mind and heart. The true shape of himself. A mirror and a memory and all of his moments, back to his very childhood.  Oh, how he had always loved crows.  Everything about them– inside and out. Their tiny heads, perfectly round. Their eyes, flashing even in the darkness. Their beaks and their wings and their smooth bodies, like oil, like the fabric of the night sky with not even a single glittering star to ruin it. He'd spent years and years of his childhood playing with them. His one place of peace in the middle of all the rest of it. The nightmare. The mess. But there were the crows, and all of it was okay.  But now, at this moment, at this exact moment, when he had just killed her-- his soulmate, surely, she must have been-- he suddenly was not interested in crows anymore.  As though he’d ...