The Prejudice Against A Bird

By Aiman Barjees

A crow perched on a crooked branch,

Far from reach, yet near the ground.

It set its eyes on some distant treasure,

The hoarder knows the worth of things most precious.

And so it cawed; a cry to the wilderness,

Lamenting the jewels it could not possess.

Through the cold evening, as it shrieked incessantly,

The onlookers only frowned upon its monstrosity.

Its grotesque talons pressed on the shame,

Why was the 'crow' such a hateful name?

But the crow knew not of its beady eyes,

Of the abysmal depths filled with lies.

A bird of sky, called an omen of death,

It knew not the misfortunes tailing its presence.

Driven away, it left for another hill,

Leaving behind black feathers from its wings.

By Aiman Barjees