Assumption

By Mahathi Vinodkrishna

A blast of color on the owl's fore,

blood scattered on the forest floor.

They burned in anger, their eyes did cry,

The blood reflected the public's eye.

They raged at a man who stood in shock.

A bow in his hand,

his eyes in a lock.

He mouthed some words: "It wasn't I."

"I didn't hit the owl's eye."

The men and women they hit and fought.

The children and elders, quite a lot.

For revenge, with the archer's blood,

They made the forest floor flood.

The owl they loved,

the owl they admired,

they never knew their owl was tired.

She looked up with her lonely eye,

and with exhaustion, her tears dried.

She hadn't meant to go this far,

but her mind was fighting a war.

Hence, her red marked the mud,

for what was a war without any blood?

It wasn't to die,

it was to cry,

but the public, they sure did pry.

She mouthed some words,

"It was I,

It was I who hit the owl's eye."

By Mahathi Vinodkrishna