Poetry | Songs | Life
Do you speak hornbill?
Monsoon grey clouds
may bring gloom
but surely look
prettier than blue skies;
a perfect background
to hornbill’s silhouette,
calling its mate, summoning the rains?
Who knows?
I don’t speak hornbill.
Do you?
After
the
heavy
monsoon
rains,
wherever
I look
a sweet,
expression
of
life and
love.
And this is where on the floor of this tree
all of last year I slept and dreamt
of the months and years that will unfold
to heal and spread joy,
warm gentle summers and cold cosy winters,
in which hot cups of tea will be passed around
and we will all taste the sweetness of being,
you will mine and I will your’s
and it won’t matter where we came from;
only where we are going to go to.
And I wish for you that it’s a
cosy happy place that you are going to.
Two little industrious boys.
Tomorrow when they grow up,
they can make or they can break.
Tomorrow it could be
nations' conflict that needs fixing.
But for today,
it's just disentangling
of kite string that's needed.
They cast an iron sky
over our cities
They hoped for us to quietly
rust.
Our voices stronger, louder, more together,
firecrackers of freedom,
burning through it,
bringing it down.
Sweet little girls
in their Sunday best frock,
with frills, satins and sequin.
Sweet little girls
in their red ribbons, red roses
and loveful smiles.
Sweet little girls
with their bright eyes
and the sweetest song of life.
This afternoon,
you hovering over
water's face,
as if in your reflection
admiring yourself.
What joy it brought to my heart
only the water knows
and the breeze
that kissed your delicate wings.