Shrine of The Crows - Where The Crows Still Kneel

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Before the flood had a name or a shore,
Before the first bell rang for war,
The crows flew down through the smoke and reed,
To drink the truth where the hearts still bleed.

They found no priests, no holy tongue,
Just bones that hummed what the earth had sung.
And every eye that met their stare
Forgot its name and left it there.

Oh, Where the crows still kneel,
The sky burns black and the wounds won’t heal.
They bless the rot, they bind the flame,
They whisper back the unsaid names.
Their wings are psalms, their eyes reveal
What gods remember, and men conceal.

They perch where the drowned build shrines of bone,
And guard the paths the dead have sown.
When thunder speaks, they count each toll,
For every storm’s the birth of a soul.

The swamp don’t drown what it wants to keep,
It folds it quiet, it lulls it deep.
And where those shadows fold and blend,
The crows still gather at the end.

There’s a tree in the mire with bones for roots,
Drippin’ with feathers and river soot.
Every dawn, I lay down low,
Where the black wings circle, slow.

They don’t speak of mercy or sin,
They just watch the wind breathe in.
And when the thunder cracks the sky in two,
They bow their heads like I was due.

They’ve seen kings crowned in cypress bark,
Heard choirs rise from the river dark.
Every hymn you’ve ever known
Was first a caw in a field of bone.

And when my blood hums soft and near,
I’ll feel their wings, I’ll lose my fear.
For every sinner, and every seal,
Finds its peace where the crows still kneel.

The swamp remembers every sound,
Every crow that touched the ground.
They feast on truth, they leave what’s lie,
And I give my voice to the open sky.

Now every note’s a feathered hymn,
Carried far where the dark begins.
I hum it low so the dead can feel,
The creed of those that never kneel.

So leave your prayers where the willows weep,
The crows are listening in their sleep.
And when the wind forgets to feel…
That’s where the crows still kneel.

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Before the flood had a name or a shore, Before the first bell rang for war, The crows flew down through the smoke and reed, To drink the truth where the hearts still bleed. They found no priests, no holy tongue, Just bones that hummed what the earth had sung. And every eye that met their stare Forgot its name and left it there. Oh, Where the crows still kneel, The sky burns black and the wounds won’t heal. They bless the rot, they bind the flame, They whisper back the unsaid names. Their wings are psalms, their eyes reveal What gods remember, and men conceal. They perch where the drowned build shrines of bone, And guard the paths the dead have sown. When thunder speaks, they count each toll, For every storm’s the birth of a soul. The swamp don’t drown what it wants to keep, It folds it quiet, it lulls it deep. And where those shadows fold and blend, The crows still gather at the end. Oh, Where the crows still kneel, The sky burns black and the wounds won’t heal. They bless the rot, they bind the flame, They whisper back the unsaid names. Their wings are psalms, their eyes reveal What gods remember, and men conceal. There’s a tree in the mire with bones for roots, Drippin’ with feathers and river soot. Every dawn, I lay down low, Where the black wings circle, slow. They don’t speak of mercy or sin, They just watch the wind breathe in. And when the thunder cracks the sky in two, They bow their heads like I was due. They’ve seen kings crowned in cypress bark, Heard choirs rise from the river dark. Every hymn you’ve ever known Was first a caw in a field of bone. And when my blood hums soft and near, I’ll feel their wings, I’ll lose my fear. For every sinner, and every seal, Finds its peace where the crows still kneel. Oh, Where the crows still kneel, The sky burns black and the wounds won’t heal. They bless the rot, they bind the flame, They whisper back the unsaid names. Their wings are psalms, their eyes reveal What gods remember, and men conceal. The swamp remembers every sound, Every crow that touched the ground. They feast on truth, they leave what’s lie, And I give my voice to the open sky. Now every note’s a feathered hymn, Carried far where the dark begins. I hum it low so the dead can feel, The creed of those that never kneel. Oh, Where the crows still kneel, The sky burns black and the wounds won’t heal. They bless the rot, they bind the flame, They whisper back the unsaid names. Their wings are psalms, their eyes reveal What gods remember, and men conceal. So leave your prayers where the willows weep, The crows are listening in their sleep. And when the wind forgets to feel… That’s where the crows still kneel.

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