See the poise of pain, on a lonesome log
Where throbs her heart, by the thorny shrub
Though today, she spared, that monologue
Alone she moans, lost in hubbub!
Why would she, whine in vain, or long?
Do fowls too love, like humans do?
To whom, the seeds of pain, belong
Ain’t they, the soul of, a spent virtue!
Which nerve they bare, her poignant notes
That rends the heart, of the wild-wild wood
What a broken chirp, spent song connotes
Pain’s the only faith, ever understood!
As I chance upon, her solitary psalm
I cross my heart, and hope to die
I forget about, life’s puny qualm
When I Hear, The Cuckoo Cry!
© 2017 Vikas Chandra