Question

Poem of The Raven with no plagiarism

Answer 1

They came on a wind with the ink of the moon,
a single black bird at my sill—
a silhouette cut from the night's thin braid,
eyes like two coal-breathed lamps.
I had been keeping vigil of absence,
counting the quiet like coins fallen in grass;
the house answered me hollow and patient.

The bird hopped onto the lamp's iron arm,
tilted its head as if weighing my silence,
and spoke in a voice that was gravel and bell:
"No shelter here."

I asked for names of the things that had left me—
for a path back through doors I had closed,
for the map of a face gone from my mirror.
The bird cocked, then repeated, not cruel, only true:
"No shelter here."

Its shadow pooled on the carpet, a dark lake
that trembled when I pressed my palm to thought.
I offered it questions like burning paper;
it set no light to them, only echoed the room:
"No shelter here."

Outside, the sky was all slow iron and distant engines;
inside, the clock forgot how to move.
I found no comfort in answers that were clear as a lock.
The bird, like some small judge, did not relent:
"No shelter here."

So I stayed to listen as the night folded over its bones,
and the refrain became a steady knocking in my chest.
If hope was a house, the bird's voice was the wind at the seams:
a careful, cold truth that shook the shutters and left
the rooms of old grief uncluttered and bare.

When morning came at last it found me with the mantle of midnight still on,
and the bird—unmoved, unblamed—took to the sill and to the sky.
It left behind only the space where its wings had pressed the glass,
and the small, clean ache of a sentence that needed no reply:
"No shelter here."