sandeepsufi
New member
After a long, hard, heavy, wearisome journey
at sun down,
its will a bit cast down
and temper with a little frown,
The parrot with wings tired,
its beautiful colours all mired
in hard journey’s perspiration
landed on a branch.
Winter was at its peak,
And anxious, drooping, panting was the beak,
With every minute saffron slanting rays
were melting into misty bays,
Cold was slowly creeping up
and its pinch was becoming bold
to take everything in its hold,
With sad eyes it ogled at the setting sun,
Too long and taxing had’n the run
and long forgotten was the flight’s fun,
(Where was that fleeting, winged pun?)
With each mile the journey had become a drag
and vigour and energy that uplifted him with a brag
were now dumped in some pit,
Last ounce of strength was then hit,
But still he had far to go,
while his height became continuously low,
Before the eventuality did he bow
and anchored his feathery weight
upon a branch’s restful bait,
‘Merciless, frost-fanged will be the night,’
he thought to his misery’s delight,
As the warmth vapoured off his body,
Shudder came over him with incremental ease,
Anxiously he ruffled his feathers
as if to loosen cold night’s siege,
Where to spend the night
he thought from depression’s highest heights,
Suddenness of sunset made him realize
the possible utility of the remaining time,
And he looked around like the
feeble truth emanating from a sad rhyme,
For miles long everything appeared
surrendered to the twilight’s imminent pal,
And all wood appeared solid and creviceless;
without that niche which is a bird’s hall,
Before his despair and agony touched another peak,
he heard a muffled, breaking-free, old, juvenile shriek,
An old sparrow,
its grayish patches long under time’s harrow,
was seen bathing in a puddle,
Seeing him his senses went into a chilly huddle,
‘Hey, such a cold night in waiting!
Take care it does not become death’s baiting!
Fellow, you must take care
and must not extend your dare
to the extent of your doom!’
The sparrow squeaked and shrieked with zoom,
‘My old coat has enough room
for the water to turn vapours
and shun and beat death’s creepers!’
With his saggy, drenched feathering
the sparrow flew to him for a hearing,
And the visitor’s problem was told,
Said the sparrow becoming gracious and bold,
‘Dear, I have no family
and live in a banyan crevice,
Come with me, I’m at your service!’
It was a horribly chilly night,
No light for miles to sight,
Chilly rainstorm beat against the tree
to uproot the shackles and set it free,
But the tree was strong,
It withstood the deathly throng.
‘I live here all alone,
Though reminiscences sometimes come to moan
over my beautiful, active past,
Darted when I fast
and voowed damsel sparrows with finesse,
Raised families as the cost for my instinct’s ecstasies,
Then age caught with me,
Now eyes no longer see
the beauties of this world around,
but sense the death’s bloodthirsty hound.
Still I live happily as the tail-end
of that great life lived,
Enjoyed I the choices that fate sieved,
Now, I have to pickup and play
among those things and chaff discarded
which remain unwanted above
as fine particles trickle below,
Steadily this discarded heap grew
While I enjoyed the sieve’s fine brew,
Now I roll like a kid in that rubble of past
which was once waylaid by youth’s blast,
It now becomes the precious wealth
of my old age,
Shiny becomes the rage in this haze,
There are no takers for it now,
So I enjoy it all alone
without that competition’s drone,
Happily I’m all alone with my age old,
And try even to become bold
against this winter’s hold,
During youth I flew majestically high
To beat cold by my blood warmths,
But now wisdom swarmths,
And I still find ways
to brightly lit my days with these feeble rays,
In this cosy wood-hole of mine
Drunk I’m with my age’s vintage wine,
I know that I may not go out of this hole
to ride softly on time’s back at some dawn,
When mortality may pick up the pawn,
Leaving this old feathering engraved
in this very woody niche,
But that does not make me sick,
Because that sleep does not seem
different from the one that I now enjoy,
The pitcher of desire no longer exists,
Neither is it empty
so that I must have desires to have it full,
Nor it is full, so that I should browbeat
being afraid of losing it,
The sinews holding life to my body
have become impassive, senseless and bloodless,
They will not feel the pain of cleavage:
It will be just like an autumn leaf
being painlessly windblown into oblivion,
In this tepid existence of mine,
devoid of both heat and cold,
warmth and coolness prevail in some
pleasant, vague proportion,
Pleasure and pain seem to have lost their specificities:
Neither both exist, nor are they dead.
You are young and colourful!
How come you look so submissive and sad?
Have the conditions been so bad
to steal and rob all the real charm
and leave the colour on the feathers and soul
so dull and poor?’
at sun down,
its will a bit cast down
and temper with a little frown,
The parrot with wings tired,
its beautiful colours all mired
in hard journey’s perspiration
landed on a branch.
Winter was at its peak,
And anxious, drooping, panting was the beak,
With every minute saffron slanting rays
were melting into misty bays,
Cold was slowly creeping up
and its pinch was becoming bold
to take everything in its hold,
With sad eyes it ogled at the setting sun,
Too long and taxing had’n the run
and long forgotten was the flight’s fun,
(Where was that fleeting, winged pun?)
With each mile the journey had become a drag
and vigour and energy that uplifted him with a brag
were now dumped in some pit,
Last ounce of strength was then hit,
But still he had far to go,
while his height became continuously low,
Before the eventuality did he bow
and anchored his feathery weight
upon a branch’s restful bait,
‘Merciless, frost-fanged will be the night,’
he thought to his misery’s delight,
As the warmth vapoured off his body,
Shudder came over him with incremental ease,
Anxiously he ruffled his feathers
as if to loosen cold night’s siege,
Where to spend the night
he thought from depression’s highest heights,
Suddenness of sunset made him realize
the possible utility of the remaining time,
And he looked around like the
feeble truth emanating from a sad rhyme,
For miles long everything appeared
surrendered to the twilight’s imminent pal,
And all wood appeared solid and creviceless;
without that niche which is a bird’s hall,
Before his despair and agony touched another peak,
he heard a muffled, breaking-free, old, juvenile shriek,
An old sparrow,
its grayish patches long under time’s harrow,
was seen bathing in a puddle,
Seeing him his senses went into a chilly huddle,
‘Hey, such a cold night in waiting!
Take care it does not become death’s baiting!
Fellow, you must take care
and must not extend your dare
to the extent of your doom!’
The sparrow squeaked and shrieked with zoom,
‘My old coat has enough room
for the water to turn vapours
and shun and beat death’s creepers!’
With his saggy, drenched feathering
the sparrow flew to him for a hearing,
And the visitor’s problem was told,
Said the sparrow becoming gracious and bold,
‘Dear, I have no family
and live in a banyan crevice,
Come with me, I’m at your service!’
It was a horribly chilly night,
No light for miles to sight,
Chilly rainstorm beat against the tree
to uproot the shackles and set it free,
But the tree was strong,
It withstood the deathly throng.
‘I live here all alone,
Though reminiscences sometimes come to moan
over my beautiful, active past,
Darted when I fast
and voowed damsel sparrows with finesse,
Raised families as the cost for my instinct’s ecstasies,
Then age caught with me,
Now eyes no longer see
the beauties of this world around,
but sense the death’s bloodthirsty hound.
Still I live happily as the tail-end
of that great life lived,
Enjoyed I the choices that fate sieved,
Now, I have to pickup and play
among those things and chaff discarded
which remain unwanted above
as fine particles trickle below,
Steadily this discarded heap grew
While I enjoyed the sieve’s fine brew,
Now I roll like a kid in that rubble of past
which was once waylaid by youth’s blast,
It now becomes the precious wealth
of my old age,
Shiny becomes the rage in this haze,
There are no takers for it now,
So I enjoy it all alone
without that competition’s drone,
Happily I’m all alone with my age old,
And try even to become bold
against this winter’s hold,
During youth I flew majestically high
To beat cold by my blood warmths,
But now wisdom swarmths,
And I still find ways
to brightly lit my days with these feeble rays,
In this cosy wood-hole of mine
Drunk I’m with my age’s vintage wine,
I know that I may not go out of this hole
to ride softly on time’s back at some dawn,
When mortality may pick up the pawn,
Leaving this old feathering engraved
in this very woody niche,
But that does not make me sick,
Because that sleep does not seem
different from the one that I now enjoy,
The pitcher of desire no longer exists,
Neither is it empty
so that I must have desires to have it full,
Nor it is full, so that I should browbeat
being afraid of losing it,
The sinews holding life to my body
have become impassive, senseless and bloodless,
They will not feel the pain of cleavage:
It will be just like an autumn leaf
being painlessly windblown into oblivion,
In this tepid existence of mine,
devoid of both heat and cold,
warmth and coolness prevail in some
pleasant, vague proportion,
Pleasure and pain seem to have lost their specificities:
Neither both exist, nor are they dead.
You are young and colourful!
How come you look so submissive and sad?
Have the conditions been so bad
to steal and rob all the real charm
and leave the colour on the feathers and soul
so dull and poor?’