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At the crossroads, when the sun goes dim
The paths seem to merge
Horizon gets blurred
A lone bird traversing the winds of change
Lazily flies around.
The paths seem to merge
Horizon gets blurred
A lone bird traversing the winds of change
Lazily flies around.
It crosses the river burgeoning with spilling clouds
Or perhaps, the miser foresight of some greedy empire
breaking the banks, charting new path
the river flows
through the tattered gear
of skeletons alive;
Sweeps through the mud floors,
rugged and unkempt.
And even soaks the thatch roofs-
dead palm greens,
sun burnt and
smarting in heat.
It eats up the grains, still unborn
and mauls the lone pillar of a bridge,
yet to be built.
It rushes and flows
right through the agony
of being at the mercy of nature,
or probably at malevolence
of the champions of grief!
It dries out the hope already parched,
and drenches the eyes resigned to fate.
The lazy bird floats
in between wet clouds
And sopping expanse of earth-
soaked to the soul.
Assured of the cocoon its nest beholds
it twitches at the homes buried in waves-
of flowing wetness…
of uncaring mercies…
of hypocrite compassion and,
the grudging duties, wilfully delayed.
It drops a twig,
it had no use to carry.
The dried piece of a dead plant
Flows down the heights
Caressing a child crying for care.
The smooth touch, surprises the child.
It then looks up at unsheltered skies
and watches transfixed
as the bird keeps flying
not wet, not tied, not helpless – so free
the sad eyes then fill up with glee…
if the bird can fly despite the wind,
why can't I swim, overcoming the tide…
Childish dream, a juvenile resolve
yet stronger than hope
sweeter than promise
dabbed with the salt of pain!
Or perhaps, the miser foresight of some greedy empire
breaking the banks, charting new path
the river flows
through the tattered gear
of skeletons alive;
Sweeps through the mud floors,
rugged and unkempt.
And even soaks the thatch roofs-
dead palm greens,
sun burnt and
smarting in heat.
It eats up the grains, still unborn
and mauls the lone pillar of a bridge,
yet to be built.
It rushes and flows
right through the agony
of being at the mercy of nature,
or probably at malevolence
of the champions of grief!
It dries out the hope already parched,
and drenches the eyes resigned to fate.
The lazy bird floats
in between wet clouds
And sopping expanse of earth-
soaked to the soul.
Assured of the cocoon its nest beholds
it twitches at the homes buried in waves-
of flowing wetness…
of uncaring mercies…
of hypocrite compassion and,
the grudging duties, wilfully delayed.
It drops a twig,
it had no use to carry.
The dried piece of a dead plant
Flows down the heights
Caressing a child crying for care.
The smooth touch, surprises the child.
It then looks up at unsheltered skies
and watches transfixed
as the bird keeps flying
not wet, not tied, not helpless – so free
the sad eyes then fill up with glee…
if the bird can fly despite the wind,
why can't I swim, overcoming the tide…
Childish dream, a juvenile resolve
yet stronger than hope
sweeter than promise
dabbed with the salt of pain!
