The Towers of Silence in Bombay

Calling, climbing, circling,
raucous in the heat –
servants stiffly suited
in preen of deepest black.
Funeral in their finery
they swoop, and glide and cry
around the Towers of Silence;
their table full supplied.
The garden grows in ramble
and cracks at summer’s pull;
it’s gentle green forgotten
beneath the dry, blue dome.
For death is always present-
companion to the feast
which comes in any season,
which calls to all who wait.
These carrion crows
of bright, bold beak
keep ready watch for when
the cloth is laid, the meal
prepared – the dinner may begin.

NB: The Towers of Silence are where Parsees are buried, their bodies food for the scavenging birds.

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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