My poetry (3)


The palanquin rode on the shoulders of men
the structure belonged to a different era.

the hut, the front yard garden,
the small river flowing near by,
these things had their own meanings,
when things worked only too naturally.

Where do they, the birds, fly to?
To their homes.
Where are their homes?

Some time back they were on the treetops
perched on the joints to hidden branches
or hanging precariously (didn’t they look that way?)
in different shapes well woven.

Now they are on the rooftops of high-rise buildings
pitiably hidden like thieves in the gaps of the cemented bricks.

The invasion meant
adjustment of wings to the available wind.

At times even a small pull
may cause the eggs to fall and break.

Things are so delicate
one has to be doubly careful before
opening any thing
a door
a window pane
or even a small sill.

Since in the hidings
the act may be in progression
the primitive act of procreation.


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