A Patriarchal Carnivore

The crows circle over the dead rat,
And gather, cawing together;
As one they tear apart the carcass
Freshly crushed by wheels-
One with a two-colored flag.

And as each gets its fill,
With a satisfied caw, it climbs
Away, to scout for more,
Alive, dead or rotten-
Smitten, torn or plainly swallowed.

From dawn to dusk,
The ministers survey,
Search and watch out,
And in between

The ways of the loin,
The peck with their beaks also.

And the black crow-
He stands atop a bust,

Clawing in, and looking out for more,
Maybe fresh, young and tender,
Or ever so slightly greyed,
Or the old lady who is just too frail.

The lust struck eyes prey for more,
And pick out a scurry and swoop
To rip
And to rip and rip to ignominy.


A swoon gathers,
And pleasurably eaten,
The remains stay,
Till the storms cover it away.

There he flies our majestic crow-
And all hands feed this ancestor,
He who held vows on his sacred thread,
He whose land, they took upon his death.

P.S:- Title courtesy Srini