On the Corner of Plaza Baja

The world is a just a handkerchief,
and a small town is a hell.
The chattering of the ageing crows
drowns the church's doleful bell.
And if the crows walk upright
and chatter in corners, grinning,
the business of the others is theirs,
'because they have been sinning!'
They feign a flapping outrage,
and embellish every sigh,
or touch or kiss in daylight,
which they'll garnish with a lie.
But these crows once were nightingales,
cuckoos, magpies, thrush,
preening evening feathers,
revelling in the rush.
Black was the colour round their eyes,
vermillion on their lips:
they drank of love in gasping gulps
and not with dainty sips.
What happened to these songbirds?
Where did tolerance go?
Why do they hate all lovers,
who used such love to know?