The Little Birdie

as the chill of the winter,
shook its last traces
of the season,
the little birdie
perched on a wrinkled roof,
and tried to gather its balance,
to avoid falling off,
from the rim of the roof

as the smoky cloud
cleared up,
and uncovered the azure blue skies
beyond the endless,
and the infinity,
the little birdie
whistled a note,
far sweeter than the flute,
as it rested,
on a nice cozy bunch of twigs,
and made up for the
sleepless nights, and restless days

as the train blared,
and emerged from the clearing,
as its soul rose,
as if from the holy dip of the kumbh,
the little birdie,
perched on the window rails,
and she was the toast
of the gaze,
as if there for a banter,
and a sip of chai,
to make up for the train journey
that never was

the little birdie,
had not given up, in a long time,
but, it couldn't anymore,
unable to withstand
its own weight,
it fell off from its perching,
the calm made way for a stirring,
and a stream gushed,
and swept over the cheeks,
as the bloodshot veins
of the sore eyes
gave it away,
as the storm in his soul
was met
by the storm
in a long-lost soul!




© sashikant mohanty