Tear drenched rose buds of morning time.
Sweet scented rinds of cedar,
Covered in dusty grime.
And the wounded Sharinga tree,
Cleansing its spirit, a benumbed bleeder.
The perky, chirpy, squirrels whine.
Fervidly shaking their head,
Perching on the green grape vine.
Bewailing the death of dry hazel.
From their hazel eyes, teardrops are shed.
Scent of the soil, the shoots rejoice
The cuckoo sings in soprano voice
Scents of the floret, sidle and surround
Buzzing and humming, bees all around.
And with a tinge of joy,
My heart flutters like a bird.
Soaring high on the Winged Words.
– Devesh Dubey