THE    PAIN      OF    THE     CUCKOO

The  cuckoo cried  in passionate pain

throughout the night.

Not a drop of water fell; though

distant thunder felt.

Cuckoo arrives in early march and

is heard till  june-july  end.

She searches for her mate and

creates many symbols of rain.

Her song, her solitude, her plea

goes unheard; in traffic din urbane.

Why is she here then wasting

her voice on ungrateful citizens?

I have heard her song at all

times during the day.

But why is she so much in

grief  tonight?

Will she be able to attract

her mate?

Will she be able to love

once again before the season dies?

This sound is the nature’s blessing

which we search in temples and tomb.

Those  are blessed who hear her

cry , those deaf; remain ungroomed.

No  scientist can create such soulful cry,

it is only an artist’s inspiration.

Am I the lucky one who hears

in this green corner of metropolis?

Have the concrete kept her

away  from her annual visits?

Deprived of destiny will the children

of  modernity  never hear her,

nectar sound that  nourishes

their generation.

God they say lies in

small things, small sounds,

same sound with subtle variations

is the source of truth and joy.

She is in perennial quest, in

eternal pain, an emotional pain.

To make us happy.

To salivate  us .

To redeem us.

To rejoice us.

Do we deserve her?

Worshippers of  market!

Soldiers of corporate!

Ready to conquer the fertile

for greed.

No! we not; we not

deserve her song; her

sound.

No ! do not come

cuckoo again.

This shall be our punishment;

our penance.