Everything passes. It has to. That's the beauty and tragedy of it.
I know, we must seem quite out of place.
From your vantage point, ridiculous even.
Like squatters who have set up home
On footpaths and refuse to vacate their poor hearth.
Your expression reveals your incredulity.
Your eyes are startled by the discovery.
But for me and my winged folk,
It is but a cruel joke.
That has long since ceased to be funny
And remains open, like a yawning gash,
Refusing to be healed by time…
So, when you accidentally look on in passing
At the hay and grass and sodden straw,
Precariously teetering between the iron arms
And trailing down an electric pole,
Know that it is where we have been driven to live.
For, even lone electric poles on road-sides
Can efficiently serve as shelters.
Until of course, there is rain and storm.
Our home, that had once been lush and green,
Have been mercilessly razed to the ground,
To make way for iron and brick monsters
That shelter you, serve you, help you rule…
As the perpetrators or as apathetic onlookers
It is you who have caused our plight.
Think of the damage you have rendered on nature.
You – the “Thinkers”..! the “Owners of intellect”..!
You are nothing but the harbingers of sorrow and suffering.
You may make a million air-crafts everyday,
Or imitate us all you like.
But no matter how hard you try,
As long as you are chained to your vices,
You shall never become us – The true spirits of freedom.
And you shall always remain the way you are –
Aliens to true happiness…