(Read the whole poem..if possible!🤐)
What shall we do?
It kills us brutally too,
We are indeed a big species,
But murders have become regular cliches,
But our jinxed fortune questions us- are we becoming extinct,
The threads seemed to be vibrant to us all,
Till it kept us making our last wish so fatal,
Then we decide to hide high in the sky,
Till those electric poles make us a fry,
But they race to reach there too
What shall we do?
Shall we get our people killed,
I think they have hefty filth,
One fine day the story is long,
But to make you hear I'll make it unlong,
The king of the species and the heir to the throne,
Went to a battle all alone,
The time clicked and passed late,
We soon saw their death scene to their fate,
What shall we do?
Now we all are here hiding in a location unseen,
But our men and women are getting ensanguined with blood which seems to be foreseen,
And a child of thiers asked what do you call that killer machine?
They answered with shrewd keen
"A kite!"

© Krishna Parmar

Hey people!
This is not a poem to hurt anyone's sentiments but just a reminder that Pigeons and other birds are getting a viable and a savage death so to avoid their dormancy we can just not fly kites high in the sky and help them live thier lives.
Thank you,
Regards,
Krishna Parmar.