The Sparrow And The Eagle

I am squeamish about crying men. I feel “crying” is the preserve of womenfolk. We, women, should one day reclaim the keys to these floodgates that burst open swizzled juices of joy and misery. A crying man disturbs me. On the other hand, a crying woman is unexceptionable. Yes, yes woman are born with undepletable ducts. When a man cries, there's a purpose or a reason behind such expression of grief. But a women needs no provocation, she can cry in delight! in rapture! in pain! in confusion! in amusement! in boredom! in allegro! in arpeggio! No one pays serious attention to a crying woman. But a crying man, the world stands still. Case in point, the mode of crying makes the difference holds some ground. May be women have eroded in the finesse of crying which an average male has picked up and mastered as you reckon “after the ascent of Kamal Hausin male-crying has undergone a sea change”.

Isadora's death is wrenching and shocking even to the most imaginative and crooked brains. Such a grotesque end! With the compilation of these obituaries, one might mistake your blog for a study session of William Cullen Bryant’s Thanatopsis. This brave undertaking of ours on Shakespeare’s “undiscovered country” and Bryant’s “mysterious realm” will shrink even the maker of this video to shame. Cheeniya, we have to copyright our sepulchral research.

I scratched my brains on the taxonomy of these godwits starting with their nomenclature.
Why godwits? If there is no god in them, atleast there should be some wit hence the (internet-crawly) joke.