A Crow's Suicide Poem by Prof Niamat Ali Murtazai

Each season as per its reason deals with others
For some it brings new lives, but for some murders.
Spring is autumn, autumn is spring for some
No one knows what for him, out of fate's book, will come.
Flowers bloom, comes gloom, and they look like a shattered dome;
Winds groan, trees are shorn, corroded is Life's tomb.
A young crow was raptured by the winds of spring
After a deadly winter, it was time to sing.
His caw! caw! was charming in the seasonal beauty;
To enjoy the allotted time seemed his first duty.
Frolicking in the branchy mesh, in a trap he was caught
To get rid of it, for long hours, hopelessly he fought.
But the strong kite flying thread did not break
In this effort was badly injured his black beak.
The setting Sun looked at him with wistful eyes
As people look at the person who before them dies.
The cold night made his body stretched: head downward
And the trapped feet could be seen rising upward.
People looked at the scene and called it a suicide;
Some said: Because of bad luck, the young crow died.