Posted by: Prem Piyush | November 25, 2011


One night,
In the woods dark,
He slept half,
and half awake
within the dry leaves, swamp
Hearing the sound,
The sweet one.

Some bird – may be cuckoo.

Crippled near to the tree,
It was better,
It seemed-
The lyrics,
With the sweet music.
Talking to him.
Lonely in the dense and dark.

As the hours flew away,
The more chirpings added,
Of other birds.
Its dark blue in the east.
The soul orchestra fainted
In the light of dawn

Only in night,
It was routine,
Another and yet another night.
His closed eyes,
created motifs from songs,
Rainbows converted to waves.

To hold the music,
Climbed the tree.

And he hold the bird
Yes – its cuckoo.
Pure Black –
He saw in morning.

Next night,
It sang again,
At his garden.

But the song was,
Lyrics without music.
Hazy waves,
Shapeless patterns,
And no colors.

Last night,
He left cuckoo free,
To hear again
In Dark woods.

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