By Dhillan Chandramowli
Moy was cloyying a dark little claw.
His paw was normally pink
But of late, it had gone
From pink to purple to somewhat coleslaw
Before getting black as a gong
And then the gong rang
Dong, dong and maybe even a dang
Dear Moy was left to the elements
Wind, water and scavengers wore him down to the last filament
But, what did his fellows feel?
Sad, because Moy wouldn't scowl?
Frowny, because Moy couldn't growl?
Happy, because on every 4th moon, he'd no longer howl?
Confused, because he never owned a cowl?
Bleak, because he lacked the wisdom of an owl?
While the owls themselves helped ease the doubts
You see, the brown feathered fishing owl, explained:
Some dig a hole and bury
Some burn and call it 'cremate'
It all usually happens on the same date
Others are quite okay to feed the vultures
Just a case of a curious thing called culture
Well, no cause for alarm, he said
Mister SS Goy goblin may claim:
Ash is the way, mud is a shame
However the idea is exactly the same —
To just cherish the journey from form to land
As land had given rise to form, now form will return to land
Fellows like Goy, until they're snoring,
Are mushroom-struck mongers, simply worth ignoring
Perhaps another cycle will begin another day
Taking more land in a slightly different way
Who knows, the way of these larger ways?
When Moy left, it was a pie of feelings
A strange mental cake that left his fellows reeling
The owl said, it's a taste called 'grief'
And it's perfectly okay
Even if it doesn't come everyday
It helps, a place or four, discover
And the mind properly recover
These places become pictures
And smells
And sights, and tunes
And little things that can't make wrong right
But they make us rich
And perhaps stronger
If we can't find words for what's happening —
Hoo hoo...why bother?
Flow as it goes, and life shall go well
As long as we're form, the aim is to live swell
Swellness needs many colours
Not white alone
Like soup needs more than peas
Or just ground bones
The fellows understood the owl
Said their thanks, and went on to their mowls
The mushrooms turned reddish again
No harm, no foul.