Three black crows,
Are in my head,
Playing a symphony.
The conductor is called anger,
The violinist’s name is regret,
The flautist goes as vanity.
They have their own music,
Distorted to say the least:
Lots of noise, in atrocious harmony.
They play unannounced,
Happiest without an audience,
Bending backwards & forward, for curtain calls.
I’ve tried to listen, I’ve tried to ignore,
Their wretched, wretched, music;
Played painfully without heart or soul.
When I insist they leave,
They play me a concerto,
When I beg them to depart,
I’m rewarded a pizzicato.
Once I asked them in earnest,
Please tell me, who let you in?
Who let you in?
All three bowed down and said,
It was you Sire… It was you.
It was only, only, you.
Three black crows,
Are in my head,
Playing a symphony.
– alok rodinhood kejriwal
