art

The solitary crow Sings as if it’s his first ever

Spraying his being upon the mere mortals out there

Unaware of their own thirst for the Art that he is

But never complaining is he really

As if it’s for the Singing itself that he ever began to offer his pristine soul

.

Day in and Day out he Sings in and out

But it’s never for the routine’s sake that he ever broke the dawn

And bestowed upon the mindless crowd the legacy of his symphonies

Who gives a damn if their boredom or rebukes aren’t the praises that he strongly intended for

At least it’s a clear signal that they’ve listened

Which in itself was a mammoth task for this day and age

The Credit of which he never longed for or desired

.

The mighty crow one day wants to fly till the zenith

Like those eagles do

It’s just that his responsibilities have overtaken him

Well beyond his stature and age

And that his heart ever longs for that one sincere ear

Willing to dissolve their differences till his toes

So long he waits

.

But don’t you misunderstand

At the end he doesn’t want your pity or sympathy

As it’s not the symphonies or the songs

Neither his being nor his might

That he refers to his art

It’s the Waiting…

And an ocean of it

Slowly dripping itself to it’s full potential

Where suddenly he is not the rebuked or the ignored

But that Majestic Whale !

Songs of which the very ocean takes up upon itself for it’s own glory

Howsoever Undefined or Disguised it might be

.