A Bird who stopped flying

I heard many crows cawing,

It was not the usual bustle,

The way they spoke was unsettling,

So I got up as curiosity is my staple,

I went outside, saw a dozen crows,

Black and grey creatures sat on the different wires,

Dark birds in the shining sun, sitting in rows,

Their calls were ominous, darkness aspires,

One of them was dead at the ground,

To mourn the dead they all came,

To see the sight my heart drowned,

In the river of sadness and pain,

Where do the dead birds go?

Where do their carcasses rot?

What if they all fell tomorrow?

We all want to be free-birds, not an ink blot,

Now the crows have gone away,

Only one dead one remains,

A sweeper comes, takes the flyer away,

The body, the fire claims,

Is the bird truly free now?

The bird is not a bird anymore,

Just a soul drifting through the universe now,

I too will fly someday, and not be tied to the floor.