Tuesday, October 16, 2012


Yellow sunshine morning,
Wet crows on telephone lines,
A gathering,
For yesterday's waste to be laid out-
The scavengers' party,
The ancestral right,
For the souls they carry,
In their deep caws.

Even as they scurry house to home,
They stand still on terraces calling out,
A friendly date, the pigeons dare n't
Steal, the squirrels keep away.

The black crows of Mambalam,
They eat away stale rice,
And at times let the rats
Win the race; and they saunter
And drop away on your best dress.

At times they prefer cars,
And sit on top of a tree
In the house where there was a murder,
Cawing and cawing,
At all times of the day and night.

At times they prefer politicians,
Dead or alive,
And then one comes back to shout at night,
All that he did wrong,
As if a penance for his previous life.

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