A cry song

The pigeon trapped inside

flaps helplessly, to

breakfree.

It was long dead, smothered

with my hands-

buried, the dungeons helped.

Reminiscing, worried

I sing a little cry song.

Traitor dungeons pierce this song,

to the pigeon,

reminding it, to oppress

to thud, to boom.

Everyday, I try to be-

Nazi, casteist, RSS.

The oppressor can't be

on the cliff, long.

Doom will seize the day-

and the pigeon will be crowned.