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.
