Perched upon the branch of a willow, as silent as the ocean floor.
Her feathers unmoved in the gentle, reeking breeze, her gaze undeterred.
A pallbearer of sorrow; her unblinking, soulful eyes, still.
“I come in grief, I come in mourning.
Tainted with the Devil’s cursed Trident, I soar in my blasphemous wake.
I long for the dead, I crave his rotting corpse.
His putrid flesh powers my unholy wings of death.”
echoes down the shady gorges of the uninhabited, resonating canyon.
And with this grim utterance from the depths of some half-lost crest,
with her wings outstretched, she rises to soar through the dusky sky again.
Scouring death to stay alive.
Authors & Literature | Rishabh Pal writes on Indian Review. Visit and find out poems and short stories from around the world. Rishab is a student of D.A.V. Public School, Kolkata.