The Crow and the Bank of Swans
The blotch on the pristine lake;
being a maverick was his fate.
The little one was mocked, but remained isolate.
He, should we call him eccentric one or brave, refused to imitate;
he would tolerate, but not break.
The normal, pious bank of White Swans
continue to dominate, sometimes obliterate;
but he would stay, suffocate but still tolerate,
But little do they know they are dicing with death,
the little crow would grow;
the Anger he has repressed would turn into strength.
And Oh god forbids if there occurs a dry spell over the lake!
The crow would rather use the pebble to sully the lake,
than to quench his thirst from the pitcher in serenade.
Till then he would wait,
might even become a fool, to masquerade,
working on his strength to elevate;
to shut down all the gimmicks,
and to rise as a Phoenix !!
✌✌
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