Gold, Mortality and Everything in Between || Poetry ✓

FIRE

Pigeons sound different here, away from home.
Here, they coo with an urgency,
A certain kind of mechanical mourning,
Almost sounding like they're warning someone
To stay away.
On early mornings, if you pay enough heed,
You'll hear them lamenting a time not too long ago,
When they were the first ones to see
A shot of saffron soar across the sky,
Crashing against the land of green,
Igniting the inferno.

On that morning of the Fire,
The pigeons cooed like they were in pain,
A silent cry disguised in their daily chatter.
They sounded like they couldn't tell the sun from the fire,
The prayer from the war cry,
The human from the man.

If you had pay enough heed,
You would've heard them -
Cooing with an urgency,
A certain kind of mechanical mourning,
Almost sounding like they're calling for someone to come
Help
Because on that morning of the Fire,
They were lamenting what was to come.

You see,
A fire as big as that day's kills the birds too.