The Foxed Crow

Bent double, wrinkled and frail,
Sat a dear old woman.
Humming old tunes to herself,
She lighted up the oven.

She then started frying wadas
As the oil began to pop.
Nearby stood a gnarled up tree
With a hungry crow on top.

Down swooped the hungry crow,
Picked up the crispy food,
Up and up he flew away
With wada both fresh and good.

He found himself a kingly spot
A place both warm and cool,
He picked his ill-earned trophy up,
His beak all reeked with drool.

Yellow, crispy and golden brown,
Like a glorious tropical sunset,
The wada, so juicy and so round,
Tasted ever so perfect.

He then saw a bushy tail,
A fox was he weary of,
Greedy things or so he thought
They deserved to be told off.

The crow gave him a defiant glance,
But then fox all starving,
Saw, instead, the golden feast
Succulent and inviting.

"Oh how I wish I find such food,
Oh how my tummy growls",
So thought the fox with a hungry eye
And then began to prowl.

"My Dear Crow, my bosom friend,
Don't you see me so?
So thin and weak and frail and pained
Please help me my lovely crow"

"Off with you, you lousy fool,
Can't you see it's mine?
I stole it all so fair and square,
Thou shalt eat that's thine"

"You mistook me my dearest crow,
I crave not for your food,
Please just tell me where to find
Wadas so tasty and good"

"No, never, you servile fox
I shall not enlighten
For it is of an old lady's craft
Not meant for creatures rotten"

"Rotten am I?" the fox thought,
"A lesson shall I teach,
For all your sharp and forked up tongue,
Humility is what I preach"

"All I need now is a plan,
A crow I'll have to tame,
And bring his ever proud beak down,
And smear his face with shame"

He sought up to the haughty bird,
With his mind all sly,
He said it in his most glib voice,
Through his teeth he lied.

"I'm not angry, nor offended,
Even though you speak,
For so lovely is thy voice
Like water flowing bleak"

"Bah! Humbug!" said the heartless crow,
"I shall never cave,
For flattery so naked and glib,
It sickens me you knave!"

"There again, you tell me off,
But then, I do not mind,
For, to hear a voice so clear and deep,
Your harsh words just seem too kind"

"You're gifted with the way of words,
You speak like poets of yore,
But for flattery so naked and glib,
I shalt bow no more"

"Oh, but, how winsome you sound,
heavenly and surreal,
Like the Spirits of Gods unbound,
Misty and ethereal.

Your fame shall spread so far and wide,
Odes shall they compose,
That tells the tale of a stout young bird,
With the voice of the reddest rose"

This was too much for the bird,
He could no longer weather,
He caved in, fell into his trap,
Hook, line and sinker.

"Do you really think so my friend?
Is your good claim true?"
"Of course it is, my comely mate,
Voices like yours are few"

"I'm flatterred, my dear bosom pal,
I ever so truly am,
I'd love to pay for your kind words,
with whatever I can"

"Oh no, Oh no, My generous friend,
I do yearn for nothing,
But to hear this divine voice,
Just a song to sing"

He then delivered in his best tone,
Mozart and Beethoven wept,
So did the fox, but had no choice,
And so off he appeared swept.

An off-pitched crow shattered the calm,
Hairs did stand on end,
He cooed and cawed and carried on,
Till the sins in hell all cringed.

As he reached the highest note,
Down fell his meal,
Gravity, the mother of cruelty,
pulled it down with zeal.

"Alas, Alas my two faced friend,
A lesson did I teach,
How can any of a sane mind,
Appreciate that screech?"

"Thou foul, sly, conniving knave
How could you lie so?
You've wounded me, four-legged devil,
Have you no heart, no soul?"

"I do, I do, my dearest fool,
I have all that you don't,
Can't you help a fellow being?
Or is it that you won't?"

And so he took the bird's prized food,
He did feast upon it all right,
The crow, a hurt and sorrowed pride,
cursed the fox with spite.

The Room

Rudely woken up, I found myself in a dingy room filled with about sixty people. Fellow beings being tormented by the same people for the same reasons I was. Trapped in this kind of an environment, humans are adapted to switch to survival mode, in this case, trying to go through it with least of a lasting impact. The mind shuts itself down; it desperately tries not to store memories of pain. The strain kills us, as we try to make sense of what is being tossed around in an effort to make us grasp intangible abstractions, which in the end, we realise, has nothing to do with helping us go through with it and that is the point when it finally dawns upon us that it is in vain that we try to fight it. But then, fight we do, for the mind is trained that way. There stood a gentleman who was, apparently, the reason we were in this situation. If words could kill, we were dying, every moment we spent in that room was agony. The man, in some twisted frame of mind, seemed to enjoy it, savouring the moments, preserving them, cherishing them, a sadist. He did it for a living. He tried to drive home a point, establish his superiority in the field. The battle was fought on for some more time, a few minutes seemed like eons to us and our perseverance and endurance finally payed off. Some of us were better warriors in this war against tyranny, and they lead us on to collide with the very man answerable to our predicament. This exposes his vulnerability, so much so that he almost caves in, giving in to us, bleeding his weaknesses out. The wheel of time turns round, the slaves become the masters of the battle, victory is near. But then, that doesn’t continue for long, there is a schedule to keep, it becomes someone else’s turn to eat us alive, from the inside, our enemy changed by the greatest nemesis of all, time. By how much ever the wheel turned, it goes back to square one. We, once again, become the underdogs, when someone else does what he did, for you see, one class was over, it is something else now and we’re yet to figure it out.

Greed

Amidst the woods, in the heart of the forests, lived an oak tree. So majestic was he, tall and fair, he grew straight into the sky. Kissing the clouds, he stood, by the river, with branches gracefully spreading out, a haven for all forms of life. He harboured more than just birds; frogs, squirrels, lizards, possums and various insects to name a few. He was a living house, for many, benignly sheltering them, with love and tender care. The creatures too, were as grateful as ever, living in the shadows of the great tree. He provided them with fruit, succulent and delectable, leaves ever juicy and green, crevices to lay eggs and raise their young. It was a harmonious existence, a beautiful symbiosis of many life-forms, a delicate balance, a fragile ecosystem. Then came another creature, for nothing more than a creature was he, with a lust for power, a slave of greed himself, wielding an axe sharper than his intellect, he set to work. One tree after another, he decimated the forest, all of the great tree's friends murdered, many lives squashed. He set about, systematically clearing the woods of all forms of life. He then turned his head towards our tree. He looked at it with awe, but with hardly any reverence, for, for him, life was just a mere resource that could be exploited at will. His avarice drooling out through his teeth, he grinned with glee, his eyes gleaming, his axe shining. He, with all his might, brought his weapon down on the hard wood, leaving a deep gash, bright and wet on the tree's root. Another blow came, making the cut deeper. He repeatedly struck the wound, as the great tree screamed and wept silently. More blows were showered, as squirrels ran for their lives, as their benevolent benefactor came crumbling down. The birds took flight, their nests fell, eggs shattered and the chicks abandoned as they,in all helplessness, cried for mercy. The tree writhed in agony as his majesty, his grace and all that he stood for came crashing down. He fell like all great kings, fell gracefully, like a martyr. His leaves touched the ground, with a resounding thud, sending shock waves of grief across what was left of the forest as the few trees spared wept. He was dragged unceremoniously across the forest floor, the last symbol of life in the woods enslaved by mad-men. Driven by river currents, the tree rafted afloat, bearing the very man who brought him down, the last symbol of graciousness he could provide. Taken to another of men, he was cut, torn apart and sliced, the spite of men feeding the giant tools of great malice, as the steel cut through the wood that once stood bearing life and made it into lifeless logs as a mirror of the slayer himself, cold and lifeless as man. With this wood, the men made many things, huge vessels carrying thousands of other men. An Armada floated across the sea, fed by the murder of trees only to aid murder of fellow men. Huge fleets of ships, fully sailed, floated across firing other ships. One by one, the ships were battered down, dead trees killed, again. The woods drowned carrying the men with them, as other men rejoiced their demise. This insanity went on for a while, ships lost, lives wrecked. The wood that once belonged to our beloved oak, fell to the bottom of the sea, only to be now colonised by fish, corals, and crabs. Life always thrived on his account, life always cherished him. On the other hand, men that lay dead were floating, untouched and rotting. No shark, no fish, no animal found his flesh tasteful, for he was steeped in avarice and lust. No one loved him, for he loved none. No one cared for him, for he cared for none. No one grieved his death, for he grieved for none. None ever will, for he slayed his own kin, for gain. This is what happens of men, a race that craves power, governed by a will to dominate. Nevertheless, another tree grew in our oak's place, another man killed it, another war ensued, another thousands perished, in men's greed.