Birds of Prey
Few precious little moments of peace can make you have a rundown of emotions. Like when you lie on your bed with your hands folded back. There’s nothing except the sound of your heart and your breath, to break the monotonous silence in the room.
The thumping sound of your heart weaves a beautiful tune and you don’t feel alone anymore. In that precious moment, you can feel your existence and how things around you are changing, second per second.
How the view from the window changes every day, how kids you met a year ago have grown up and how birds are similar to humans. You can feel what their heart holds, you can see yourself inside them. The only problem is that you are a caged bird, who never sings. It is ironic to see that birds are trapped in cities and humans in society.
Little kids pressured, moulded and trained to please and adapt into society, which will disappoint them eventually. Alas! we all are here to celebrate life and to live as much as we can before our heart catches rust; rots and dies. So here I pour my feelings:
The autumn has gone and the winter wind is here,
And I can still hear the songs of the birds of prey.
The room is half lit and the curtains are about to fall,
My minion refuge is glowing in dim-neon lights,
This window is like a door to another world,
from where I gaze at the playful birds,
The ethereal blue sky is filled with the bustling calls of the birds,
I think they might be retiring after the day’s hustle.
It was yesterday when the nettle where they thrived was set ablaze,
Now the rattle of the construction site is more profound.
But amidst its clatter, a bird tears down,
It constantly visits the same place every dusk and dawn,
Flapping its wings, it rests, its feet on the ground,
Manoeuvres the field where once her nest was.
I glanced at her and saw the tiny creature shrill like a woman,
It chirped, stomped and wailed in the dead silence of the winter evening,
The bird then flew away, mourning the loss of her retreat that was long gone,
I returned to my desk and wondered, “Does it itch?”
I still remember the tiny bluebirds sing,
The songs, the chirps, and the mirth.
On several occasion, the birds would fly from the wilderness to sit on the windowsill,
From where they took swift flights to the ceiling,
They would perch on the fan to eye on the plot that lay vacant,
To weave their nest before the other birds would visit.
Now the birds have gone and so have the view from the casement,
Their house has been burned down and their voices have been killed,
Slowly the gratifying dusk and dawn have become lifeless,
With no greetings of our chirpy neighbours.
One or two birds do visit us every morning,
To peck the seeds from the green lawn that appears like fresh linen,
It is rather tough for them to restore faith in humans,
But they are strong and rigid,
They visit us every morning to return the favour by singing.
Birds are beautiful, birds are nice but the one inside us will ever fly?
Let thy spirit be high in love. Namaste