The Cuckoo

The cuckoo is so dark black, dark, dark, pitch dark Just like the black crow, But sings it so sweetly all through the spring, Madly in love, Singing the songs of forests, blossoms and flowers, Gardening and wild Perched on the branches of a tree And singing from there With the tunes and sweetness of its own, And the cuckold vibrating through The midday and the midnight The cuckoo so madly in love, Seeing the trees in blossoms and green leaves, The gulmohars in blossoms and reddish clusters And the cotton trees with big, big flowers falling down And the mahua blossoms falling down From which the local wine is extracted The bird pecking at, eating mangoes, Sitting among the flowers, Flying into the forest tracts, under the shady tree shades And from there singing the songs of its own, Sometimes by being oblivious of at midnight too The song flowing down mellifluously. The cuckoo’s song the song of life, The world we dwell in, Of forests, fine springs, flowery beauties, cool shades And ripe fruits, The song of the spring, A world new and afresh But mine a world worn by anxiety, care and loss And bewilderment And I picking up them to stitch To make a world remade, I do not know what it ails me, Why am so different?