The Crow’s Dropping

I still remember the words,

And even lines of my orthodox grandpa,

Like last night’s dream in my mind,

Telling tales after tales of crows

And it’s fetid droppings from the sky.

Once a crow’s dropping dropped

With a splashing sound on my grandpa,

On his pumpkin-like forehead,

And the crow disappeared like a cloud,

Then he sobbed, sniff sniff sniff!

Until the sun sank far behind,

To sleep sound in the west.

He sold his cattle for some penny,

And his jewels for some grains,

All sacrificed for rituals after rituals,

Spent no less than his lifetime savings,

To ward-off the bad luck.

Thus, he is alive to this day,

As weak as mosquitoes,

As poor as Cinderella.

Once a crow’s dropping also dropped

With a splashing sound on my head,

And socked all my hairs - as white as snow

And the crow disappeared like a cloud,

Then I cried, boo hoo, boo hoo!

Until the sun sank far behind,

To sleep sound in the west.

For too long, was I in Hamletian dilemma,

To sell or not to sell, all my riches,

For rituals after rituals like he did,

But in my mind, I knew beyond doubt,

Dropping contains nothing but rat-tapeworm,

And not bad omen, never, ever,

And I wiped and rubbed, until it hurt,

With antibacterial-scrub and some soap.

Thus, I’m alive to this day,

As strong as Lord Zeus,

As rich as the Blue Beard.