Lecturer In English Azad Manzil,Koil Pulwama, J & K.
Absurd is the life
Through the alleys of which is heard The cravings of being loved.
Curious might have been Burns when mused: ‘O My luve’s like a red red rose
That’s newly sprung in June: O My luve’s like the melodie That’s sweetly play’d in tune’. He could find love in June
He could find love in tune. It needs June to be loved in
It needs tune to be melodious with
What else could be the fate of a bird That was born in mid-winter’s night.
Ah! the grinding chill left the tongue halting The head was oft submerged in the feathers The frozen wings could never sight the heights By virtue of cumbersome snowflakes.
The whole truth was kept under a white shroud. To gauge the ‘life force’,
The bird turns introvert;
Takes the beak beneath the bosom, Listens to an unending symphony of heart That wishes to sound audible
Through the means of body, mind and soul The means that are always there,
But overshadowed by the clouds of winter.
No sun, no moon, no stars visible. Fated to be the offsprings of chill, They want to speak, they want to share For God’s sake release the sun
For God’s sake release the moon They beg for their June
They beg for their tune.