“Bachchoo, last night you dreamt of crows They don’t belong in verses They are creatures of prose: As the sun went down they took flight Their cries to me were croaking curses In thick flocks they formed the night Then implausibly they turned And were harnessed to black hearses.” From Gul Pey Laath, Tamboo Mey Ghubraaht, by Bachchoo I have …
