Birds have stories too...
Can you imagine the pain, the gripping face
and the screeching cry of a one year old
What would have been the little mind frantically searching?
His mother? Her hug? Or the fresh air from the fields?
He would have died of exhaustion
Trying to push the pain away from him
Tired, he slept in peace with his little sister as
life left them.
Now, he won’t know
the meaning of his skin tone
Or the creed, to which he belongs
And he wont live to realize
the betrayal of his own race.
He is expelled for ever.
Cuckoos are born of such tiny souls,
Who no more believe in a home, a land.
They scatter like the first rain and
Don’t stop to see their seeds sprout
Among us, the vulgar of the species.
Next time you hear a cuckoo sing,
close your eyes and listen
to the cluttered rhythm
of tiny steps