The way the crow sits on the branches of the tree,
Staring at the setting sun of a tiny town,
Is similar to him
Waiting for the yellow bus
In the stoppage of a neverland
Here, the bus does not stop,
The pedestrians run frantically,
A soul goes from door to door
Supplying the old newspaper
The world has not moved at all.
The milkman befools the townspeople
With his teardrops
As he believes it has cured
The germs of cancer in the past.
Walking through the falling leaves,
A girl slows down her speed
To capture the slow growth of a bud
Bizarrely rare and unnamed.
Here, people take bath in the rainwater
Coming down from the clouds;
Here, the students write exams in thin air
And encounter the transformation
Of those letters into chirping birds.
They cross miles after miles
To find a shelter
Alas! They fall asleep
In this bizarre land
Made up of feathers.