Our dark symbols largely cry out at midnight when the streetlight’s crooked shadows fall on the half-lit roofs and cement water tanks. They had smelt of darkness during the day .Their wings now flap from the coconut’s darkness.

At the unlit corner where awareness takes blind turn we secretly launch the struggle against these birds which have shied away from our rice balls. Our ancestors have listened to our Sanskrit prayers .They should come as crows to eat their fill .Our rice balls are on the wall amid broken glass .We cant let them starve in the other-world.

This year on the death-day the crows visited us just like all these years but their beaks refused to touch our carefully rolled rice balls .We feel bad about our ancestors who had disappeared on the burning sands of a waterless river. We hope the crows will eat our rice next year.


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