Suns of Crows

The throne of the crow Dominates their subjects below Scanning each plot of sow For the murders they can overthrow. The two withered branches from the tallest trees Seat the crow and its eyes to see that vast blue sea. Its vertical stick, oddly a nature of patriarchy. Long ago, from a time we don’t know Zeus grew this tree from his seed And its green leaves flourished As the sun sat high in the sky. While the top branch leaves the only reminisce That of Zeus’ pick. Magpies, pigeons, and crows They are his sons and successors of valiant beaux. But black and brown birds hopping in the yard Harbouring their sights on the brown dirt Pulling the earthly worms that Gaia set upon them. An inflow of peace and happiness Churns my creative outflow And a few droplets of invisible snow. I see their chirps drowned by auto-noised-polluted-mobiles I hear the silent blissfulness they secrete within my yard of worms. Cannibal birds, I yield my anger from you It is these mindless mucks Who reserve my destructive emotion descended from mother nature herself. She and her daughters and her sisters and her sons and her twins and her lovers Lay in their graves of sorrow From the forced submission of killing machines Resembling man and his bloody best friend. She dominated no one but herself This kindness for weakness Gripped by the bloody hands of the Man. They shed this blood of mimic yearly We shed our ancient blood monthly. We know this blood naturally They know this blood brutally.