Ode to the Crow

Rising like a puff of smoke,
buoyant, slow and phlegmatic,
accompanying the soul,
into the journey to the zenith,
or carrying the burden of life,
on itself,
when it itself becomes it,
it itself becomes it.
The last breath,
chokes the kin,
the soul leaves sombre,
marred with the crows of sin,
but the crows stay afloat,
by the same dense air,
which burdens their heads,
with history.
The fire burns,
and burns,
signifying one that has been put out,
perhaps to the right messenger.

Jet with clouds of grey,
like ash on a godman's head,
or black,
like Satan's red.
Oh! these zombies floating due to the lack of emotion,
why do we chain them with our chains,
our pains,
is it the dead man's choice?

Fat crows feeding on silk white rice,
cooked to perfection,
moist with the tears of the widow,
warm with her passion......
black eats white,
wrong consumes right,
the age of reality,
the age of melancholy.
But there flies away this spot of darkness,
leaving behind a heap...
leftover leftovers,
then comes from the blinding gleam of the sun,
another corpuscule of night,
an inversion of hope,
a message to humanity.

Perching on the tree,
looking at the flow of life,
the hustle and bustle of certain creatures,
the calmness of others,
like the well of life it rests on.
Life is a manifold,
yet only a quantum of being,
continuity stops at the dawn of death,
making a leap to a higher plane,
to attain the zenith of truth and purpose,
is it really a discrete jump,
or is the crow,
a thread of continuity,
as it accompanies the essence,
rising like a puff of smoke.

Once in a new moon,
a cacophony of crows,
descends upon,
from their abode in the firmament,
these ignorant birds live in the world of their own,
but then,
don't we?
These are birds of deep thought,
their split shape,
symbols of life's choices,
every man hath got....
the wings stretching,
moving,
only motion makes you fly,
as every path of life does,
the tip,
an unreachable, unsteady goal...

Crow,
electric pole,
tree hole,
or the human soul.