There’s a crow flying
outside my window.
It crows.
At this ungodly hour of 5 in
the night
(Or morning, if you must)
The sky is a dull violet
The air still and stagnating
Humid, sticky
The rickety ceiling fan and
its creaking
I toss yet again
Five hours of trying in vain
Sleep elusive as always
Sweaty, uncomfortable, at
unease
And it crows.
Perched on my window ledge.
Mocking the hollowness of my
generation…
We stay up nights, sleep
through days
Smoking our way to size zero
Movies, music, dancing, drugs
Fiercely claiming
responsibility for our lives
And then throwing ourselves
off balconies.
Such painting of us all with
one brush
I pity the mockers
They know nothing of our
times
And I muffle my sobs on the
Spencer’s cushion
And it crows.
Refusing to leave my bedside.
When I finally fall asleep
at 06:30 hrs
I know I will miss the afternoon
condolence meeting
And feel guilty for the very
Long duration of five
minutes
Then, convince myself it
doesn’t matter
And go on
Because people die and
that’s a reality
It is when the living stop
to matter
That we need to worry
We should have worried, Long
ago.
The crow is silent now.
Sleep.
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