The Cult Of The Crimson Crows

By Akshay Joshi

Where once stood a giant of a tree, with crimson bloom and gold of a wood. Remains a sole bird as black as coal, and eyes even darker. but a heart too good. It be understood that the tree was once full of life and crows of rosewood. Called they were so for they smelt of saints and crowed in the words of the old brotherhood. But one fine day, it thus happened, alas! The sky got rough and set the tree to sway. The wind then howled, and the tree then creaked and half the birds and their kin flew away. The last to stay were the raging ones. And also the cowards who were kept at bay. But when times are bad all hell is set loose. All fought and died or went astray. The last one remains at the topmost perch. Dissolved in horizon, he collects no grains. The tree still wields the ghastly scars, and the crow still wears the bloodied stains.

The last one remains

but not with hope

to see the others

return from plains.

The days are spent

in the prayer for pain

to be gone,with the crimson,

when it rains.

I wonder if the crow,

the last one to stay,

is a prisoner of past

or it hopes to outgrow

the pain of parting

from his beloved kin.

Or it waits for the sight

to shed from its brow.

I wonder if we know,

yet pretend not to,

the need to move on

when the faces show.

For the Cult of Crimson,

and all in the hood,

will be put to test

in the winter snow.

By Akshay Joshi