Iam ascending a hill
if ever I will get to see something
(I want to)
maybe,wings of the little bird
which have lost its way
after its holes in the nest
blew discordant chords
in the tunes it would have sung every morning.
(like every birds do)
Now, forlorn its little soul
nailed in the painted garden of plastic dreams
gathering the feathers pecked out tiny body.
Iam looking at the sun
with wings of that little bird in my hand
lifting it towards the sky
I witness the clouds magic.



Copyright 2006 Roshan Tulachan