THE CROW

 

The way The Crow lays his dark wing
On my sun-burned weary shoulder
Reminds me of me,
Once younger
And stronger;
Boastful in summer
Arrogant in spring
Playing the heart’s selfish string.

And the way he caresses my hair
With his black-painted thick plumes
Seems to act like some devilish brooms
With a swish,
Emerging from nowhere,
Cleaning my way up to the invisible Dome of Air.

His yellowish bill generates a sound
Spinning my head around,
Making me lose contact with the ground.

Rochdi bouillé
Summer, 1995