Blood whistles upon my lips
Like songbirds from our mountain
That make their seldom trips
When Western clouds surround them.
As we rush into our homes,
Crows roam a land alone,
And their song, on what war exhumes…
Until earthen clouds fall undone.
And as we weep a vulture hovers…
My eyes are closed and yours.
Teach me unlike the others…
As gossip on a summer’s doors.
I open my eyes and then I hear
The dry whisper of almond trees.
How can we stay here
Hope is little, the crows are near.
ahorsealone 
I don’t know almond trees, is what part of my reaction to this beautiful poem was, and I am glad to learn from you about how they whisper, and about birds and mountains and home.
Thank you Diana. Yes they are to me, partly, a sign of natural identification to home. I’m really glad you could enjoy it!
Best,
Abid