It never happened before that a crow had given me enough time to examine its face, like this one I saw this morning. It stood atop the ruins of my neighbor’s house, facing the sea. I have had a long connection with crows. They were part of my childhood when I used to go hunting birds with my friends. The crow’s call does not just evoke loneliness, but it takes you back to the dawn of creation, to the times when Adam left Eden, full of mystery of the earth.
Its voice is metaphorical. It bears interpretations. It echoes through the heart. In between the crow’s call from childhood and this one, here, 45 years have passed. In between the peaceful wilderness where birds chirped and this broken sea beside salt-silent ruins, there is enough time for a city to narrate its tragedy.
Today, the crow’s cry is the voice of nature itself; its official declaration of the death of this place. A voice that rebukes souls, firmly, yet with hidden sorrow, just like a pious neighbor at a funeral. It is the voice of desolation, leaving behind a space for silence in us followed by surrender to memory.
It is the first voice of nature which God sent when the human heart was first full of regret and questions for the first time, and when the Earth was still large and when crying was no longer enough.
Dr. A’hed Hallas
May 29, 2025
