The crow’s cawing in anger, frustration
Shrieks of course reprimands at the world around
The black bird its dark nature true displaying
Another irritant, harbinger of cruel fate?
O beloved as this dark skinned poet, his cawing
Is a pain to your manas, in full flight now.
The flight of crows circling low
Seeing the pleasure in their company
Brought together in a communal bond
Was it love, that misunderstood word
Each a hardened self-serving feeder
Sticking together, in numbers their strength
Where is the love in self-service?
By R. Sittamparam