I just saw a crow,
with a broken left wing,
on the side of the street, he cowered;

He hopped and he skipped,
scurried away,
scared of the eyes that showered; Him.

His murder watched
and taunted him,
waiting for him to die;

And death was what,
he was running from,
for the broken winged bird couldn’t fly.

I watched him for a while,
his dance with death,
then walked back into my life;

Where I do my dance,
with broken wings,
in a world where the dead are rife.

By: Viraj Belgaonkar