It is much
work to wake up every
morning after evening
and watch the singing bird
trying to rhyme, laying eggs
and taking a flight of the
the sky filled with venom.
They return. They return in
flocks scoffing at dawn,
spitting blood on the way
with a feeble ache in the heart.
They tell stories
to the young fliers
of times, that won’t return.
The blue sky, the
melodious voice, the plenty
food, and the caring arms.
Seasons change so quickly
from summer to spring,
winter to monsoon. Oh!
sorry, not the right sequence.
But who cares? They are not mine
anyway. Who am I to decide?
Who am I to love?
Stay with
Prerna 🙂
