Bedroom

an aimless freedom

two skyless wings

a crumpled bedsheet

two untrue beings...

"Hate when guys go emo," She said annoyed

it’s annoying when a young boy starts liking a cute girl, his age... but, cannot gather enough courage to walk up to her and make a framed assertion in words...

it’s annoying to keep waiting for someone at lengths in one particular place – only to steal a glance or, perhaps, a smile – just because it accidentally happened some other day...

it’s annoying to stop the bus every day before it reached the terminus and buy candies from the same old shop just to ensure ‘she doesn’t have a dance class and will come to swim... it’s all the more annoying to eat those candies all by himself and not muster a chance to give her one – after all ‘heartbeat’ was just a toffee and not a metaphor...

it’s annoying to be the best in the group and yet record bad timings to get scolded by the coach stupidly because certain friends made him swear on how much he loved Her – “if she loves you, you will not come first in the next lap...”

it’s annoying to write the letters of Her name secretly on a book cover in a self-designed puzzle in sheer innocence... later, only to get solved by mom for a good long lecture (is there a different word for scoldings?)

it’s annoying to make stupid promises to the idol tagged 'God' and keep reminding him in prayers almost every single hour for her quick recovery from injuries after She lost to Hickery-Dickery-Dock to greet a cupboard upset... accident is such a small word...

it’s annoying to be immature and catch up a fight with his best buddy, not to talk ever again in the rest of the years, only because he once muttered a few words that had an air of disrespect towards Her...

it’s annoying to get teased by pals on how his ‘girl’ got prettier since she left playing in the waters and now, swings only to the tunes of the land and brighten up stages... and hence, the shows... she chose to tread in other grounds... perhaps, waded thereafter but gave up swimming...

it’s annoying to get willingly persuaded by naughtier counterparts for getting a ball out of a thorny bush... to impress Her, standing in the opponent team and fetch a bruise for a lifetime that’ll keep reminding – the sweet chivalry and perhaps, a gesture of concern in the corner of Her eyes... (hmmm, that is just a fabrication of thoughts that he derived as a consolation for the crimson droplets)

it’s annoying to keep believing that the southern part of the city was never too big to be able to find her someday... it was unrivalled a few known bus-stops – lanes – skyscrapers and a school...

it’s annoying to spend almost more than the entire pocket-money in cyber cafe-s in the prehistoric days of internet – the days when Orkut dwelled – searching for a profile by Her name or the likes...

it’s annoying to grow up one day, dawned with an idea that made him think he was far more intelligent than Archimedes and ‘eureka’ was so old school – “why not search for someone, who in turn can bridge the search for Her?” After ‘n’ number of unaccepted friend requests, a day brought an approval of friendship from Her namesake – reportedly from the same school but, a different section... As luck befell, she was helping enough to share a number – supposedly Her best friend’s...

it’s annoying to become unpardonably shameless to call on the dubbed angel’s number a day before leaving the city himself... And, his most courteous conversation ended with a promised request – “don’t let Her know about the incident ever, not by any chance...” A strange, weird feeling... She has had left the city even before and was happy with some Prince Charming... in some other lands...

the thirst perhaps, ended... the tryst perhaps, did not...

However, it was never annoying to know –

the purple of Her robe that she used to wear to the pool, the red of Her school uniform, the rolling hair-locks on her face and the prancing ponytail...

It was all the more not annoying to know –

that she was a dancing princess though he always had two left feet, that her best friend knew about him and that too all She told her, that She was still caring enough to accept the request at a place where closed faces become open books, that even after ages She made sure she didn’t talk to him and yet he never got ‘emo’...

An Answer

a glitter in her eyes was enough

for me to strive

till mie last day...

the wait wasted steer

was foolish and naive

learnt it late

and that too the wrong way...

an unjust smile on her lips

made me read --

the idiotic aimlessness

behind every

ambition;

the symbiotic juxtaposition

behind every

separation...

the embedded symphonies in

silence;

the warranted willingness in

refusal...

an unjust frown on her face

made me read --

the complex simplicities

behind every

truth;

the rigid reservations

behind every

freedom...

the wishful victories in

a defeat;

the implied questions in

an answer...

Hidden Times

some stale memories mimic

tattered fishing nets...

the more i try

to hold back the trouts,

they keep slipping by

and present themselves infront

of mie mirror of wisdom

to mingle with old doubts...

Once, not so long back...

her smile was a mirage painted

on mie favourite wall

in the castle-like cave

i had built up in the air

her voice was an erhu in motion

in a blissful symphony

orchastrated for a divine melody

kissing the soul of the departed

closer to his own heaven

her smell was a scent fetched

in an unknown blue orchid

on the edges of a blunt plateau

i had been so many times in mie dreams

her love was a grasshopper's leap

from one blade to another

with the same overused lie

and a faking thirst begging for

life till the time's end

Sometimes Forever

sometimes rain, fights amongst the clouds

your sky - a stealth in the sunshine

sometimes night, kisses of the moon

your love - a trapped liberty of mine

sometimes memory, worthless chase undesired

your time - a never-ending knock on retentivity

sometimes light, deaths spelt on fireflies

your dark - care and fears' voiced amity

sometimes tune, rumble of the bonds

your flesh - a resonance utmost shy

sometimes shame, tranquil conflicts of the soul

your eye - a corner for my doubts to die

Jaggerish

• i can't dance

• but, i do prance

• and, i prance like a filly

• yeah i know

  it looks so silly

• it should be

  called like a colt

  but, am no thunderbolt

  
  

  i can't fly

  but, i am sly

  and, glide like a jet

  yeah i know

  it looks like a bet

  it should be

  called like a stone

  but, am no black fat drone

  
  

  
  

Shame

a jittery sound

makes the virtues drown

a slippery ground

rests the successor's crown

and

the brook keeps taking birth from the puddle

a felony voiced

moans the unheard noise

a desire poised

casts the doomed choice

and

the crook keeps cursing the cuddle

[may wrath befall those spineless creatures who forget 'eir mum's nurture as a child, 'eir dame's love as gift of a girl-child -- who think success only comes in the form of a boy, an able successor...]

The Tempest - a tribute

pity held hand with hatred

blush befriended tantalizing shame

winds raped the sails masted

yaught ain't an angry ocean's dame

[NB: Hope, the mortals who has sincerely read The Tempest written by William Shakespeare will perhaps understand the choice of words and implications they convey. Regards.]

Existence

insanity in vanity - bliss fleeing down the drain

can a shell be of use when there is no snail?

foliage in folly - Pomona fighting with the rain

can a seed sprout when the soil loves to assail?

Care-less

feelings do not change much, only faces do

falsity hides beneath what belief finds true...

concerns ever intruding,

cornered to the core...

affection stays afflict,

alone breathes adore...

possibilities keep changing, only a pauper fails to see

he lives life living, as lifeless living can be...

they love life loving, as lifeless loving can be

they live life loving, as lovelesss living can be

Waste of a Gift

unwillinglly as useless as the blunt edge of knives

stuck in the Venn of mutually exclusive yet overlapping lives...

merriment pose deceiving, the dwelling a stagnant burrow

loneliness a vixen, moments survive hoping for tomorrow...

none has the leisure to listen to own shrives

the organic cave mists deserted as dying the emotion thrives...

aims unbound -- ambitions swelled -- pride rests on a rusty arrow

souls lost, values dead, body makes the bone live devoid of its marrow...

Death of A Coin, Euthanasia awaits the rest?

Once beloved by all, our Chavanni dies young at the age of 23 and gets to rest in the banks of money river before reaching salvation as Indians relieve them from their piggy-banks to claim their worth. It's like the same feeling, when comes the news of a distant near one passing away, he becomes all the more dearer, perhaps, whom we haven't had even bothered to call in the past 5 years.

The nickel testimony of Indian numismatics, which came riding on the back of a rhinoceros and sometimes had a steel armour, got shelved forever joining its preceding aluminium brethren - the 10 and 20 paisa. And, what caused its death - rising metal prices. "It is posthumous fame for the humble char anna. The 25 paise coin may not have been worth much in the market till last week, but since it was laid to rest by the government, it has become an overnight hero." read a reputed English daily on July 2.

The "heroic" death probably relates to its youthful valour, when it really meant something in the market and when it was worthy enough to buy so many different kinds of happiness - be it sweets and toffees or be it a couple of bus fares. The quarter of complete or 'sholo aana', as a bengali connotation goes, is dead. Let it rest in peace, wherever it be - in the mints waiting for re-birth or in the treasured chests of coin collectors.

All said and done about the latest Indian metal currency being of no use anymore, coupla questions creep up in an inquisitive mind. What is the future of the remaining coins in circulation in the Indian minds and markets. If the reason for chavanni's demise was a nasty bite of the inflation bug and rising coin metal prices, shouldn't be the bigger and bountiful 1, 2, 5 and 10 rupee coins scared? Indeed, they might lose their "strength" anytime soon.

Taking into consideration the current market scenario, do we stand at a point in time, when we can talk good things about the existence and circulation of the still-standing lower denomination of coins?

Lately, most of the nation's corporate houses have started believing in "rounding off" cash transactions, thus, not paying any heed at all to the usage of the lowest-valued 50 paisa coin. Be it a telephone or a credit card bill payment, when can you last recall you've been charged with a decimal change and been able to pay the same. Perhaps, never in the recent past.

I'm also sure you have been greeted many a number of times with a smiling face of the stationary shopkeeper in your neighbourhood and coupla tofees instead of the single digit change you were expecting in return after a purchase. From the bus conductors to auto rickshaw drivers, from the local fruit sellers to the departmental store cashiers - nobody ever seem to have the change. Synopsis - you either plan your purchase accordingly or be ready to be gifted with some unnecessary happiness at the cost of a penny or two.

Citing a personal experience here. Due to convenience in location, i regularly frequent an outlet of a grocery store chain called the Namdhari's Fresh, apparently India's first EUREP-GAP certified company. Every time i visit the store and buy some stuff, the cashier makes it a point to persuade me to add a chocolate to my bill to round it off as he "never has the change" and personal observation suggests he does the same to mie fellow buyers. Hence quite obviously, sometime or the other the chocolates and the toffees taste much more bitter than their dark counterparts.

All the more glaring is the fact, that most of the time it's five rupees and not just one or two rupees. So, isn't it high time that we start realizing that this is the latest marketing strategy for these vendors to augment their confectionary sales margins and to add a sweet little hint of bliss to their rollicking businesses? Imagine, every customer visiting these stores, each hopelessly spending couple a penny more only leads to adding thousands more to the profit-box of the seller. I can still understand the devilish grin behind the smiling face of a small-time shopkeeper doing the same. But, isn't there any way out for these big chains to solve the daily issue. Or, they really do not want the 'change'? "No Change" is good for them.

There are much more things about metallic money -- way beyond just the chapter in economics books talking about the pros and cons of using them and in how many ways paper currency is superior. Nothing feels happier than the chinks of coins in our childhood piggy-banks. A subtle bliss of contented savings, much more than how much it counts...

Is this the 'End of Wait' for a New Dawn in Bengal

i belong to a generation, which started with walkman but moved on to discman, and then i-pods.

i belong to a generation, which might not remember when exactly Charles Babbage invented the concept of analytical engine, but have known the transition from P1 to P5 and duo-core chipsets with the updated versions of 'Need for Speed's.

i belong to a generation, which spent its early days listening to our moms' humming a Rabindrasangeet or a Najrulgiti at its earthy best but didn't quite hesitate to greet Dire Straits or Metallica at the teenage.

i belong to a generation, which grew up with an undeniable question in our minds that why do our state politicos need to be clad in abnormally white dhuti-panjabi, while the lesser mortals calling the state home, have long back done away with them, except for a few traditional festivities.

i belong to a generation, which was perennially inculcated with the idea of growing up to be an engineer or a doctor, and hence, fruitfully utilizing the major chunk of our middle-class parents' hard-earned money spent on education and cautiously, consciously laying the gold-plated foundation stones of our careers, starting from the first standard to ably stand on our own feet someday.

i belong to a generation, which was never encouraged to take up politics as a profession, even taking up humanities was humiliating, thus making a poet - a cleric and a painter - a lawyer -- and still, some had the courage to revolt within their personal little boundaries

i belong to a generation, which grew up with the idea that nothing remains for us in our own state as we grow up and by any means, quite necessarily, we'll have to crack one of the nation-wide entrance tests to complete studies in some other province and then to earn a job in some other.

But despite all these grumbles in mind and fumbles in heart, i belong to a generation, which earnestly wished, someday a tempest will come and sweep away all the presiding stagnation, rusty values and graveyard fundamentals in our own lands... we sincerely believed, someday our state will tear the shackles binding it for almost three decades and greet a new rising sun... we eagerly desired, someday our state will stand up again with newer horizons to discover, newer scopes to decipher, newer challenges to dismantle, newer opportunities to prove our worth...

Many promises have sunk, many possibilities have died.

But now it looks like the time has come. We've waited. And, we'll wait a few more.

Still, i belong to the generation, which wants to come home... who want to stay close to their mothers and stay as a part of a large family called home... who want to stay closer to the roots in their own lands... who want to work amongst own people, cry with them -- rejoice with them -- live lives with them...

Death of a Ten-year-old Chapter

The epitome of terror, the man who once newly defined terrorism in the wake of a new millennium, apparently is resting beneath the sea. Osama bin Laden is dead and "quickly buried at sea". Perhaps, the man who was the primal reason behind the untimely loss of nearly three thousands lives has reserved a berth of immortality with his conduits and cannot certainly die. History will perhaps remember him, as it does the Attila, or Hitler. But, dilly dallying on a few perspectives, a few questions creep up on an inquisitive human's mind. Is Osama literally dead ?The fugitive, who "achieved near-mythic status for his ability to elude capture under three U.S. presidents" was brought down by a US Navy’s SEAL Team as they carried out a helicopter assault on the fortified compound in Pakistan, cautiously built to protect him. Reports suggesting that Osama was shot in the head, hence killed instantly. Despite the fact that how big the news is to the Americas and to the world, why was the despised buried 'quickly' and why the infamous was not photographed enough to bear testimony to his demise. Apparently, the United States decided to dispose off the body in the sea to prevent the grave site becoming a shrine. Muslim scholars, however, are saying that the sea-burial has breached sharia law and a few of them have also warned that it might provoke calls for revenge attacks against U.S. targets. The only photograph of dead Osama, which has been released by British news websites is a fake. The image purporting to show Osama's corpse is a composite of two separate images. Plus, the gory image doesn't show any indications of a heat-shot.
According to U.S. security officials, "it was a kill operation", then why some of the raiders are saying - had a white-flag been waived, Osama would have captured alive. Quite obviously, to be sentenced to death only at a later date.
When it comes to make it certain that the long awaited homicide of Osama, was true to the utmost degree of perfection and only Osama Bin Laden had been killed and not a look-alike or someone else, apparently, a woman - reported to be one of Osama's wife is said to have identified the corpse. Now question arises, who would be foolish enough not to identify a body claiming to be her husband's if chance creeps such that it's the only way to save her man. An already dead man cannot be killed again, right? Wouldn't she try to ensure that her man, whoever or whatever he might be, is never chased again for life?
Is it just a diplomatic move from the U.S. government? Is it just to uplift the sentiments in favor of Obama administration amidst the economic woes? The dollar and stocks did rise, while oil and gold fell, taking into consideration that Osama's death reduced global security risks. Even if we take it for granted that Osama is actually dead. His 'brain' is supposedly not. Ayman al-Zawahri lives, and is likely to succeed Osama and hold the sails for al Quaeda's somewhat tormented ship.The Egyptian-born surgeon, who earlier stated Barack Obama was no different from his predecessor George W. Bush, has already been saying, "I want to direct the attention of our Muslim brothers in Libya, Tunisia, Algeria, and the rest of the Muslim countries, that if the Americans and the NATO forces enter Libya then their neighbours in Egypt and Tunisia and Algeria and the rest of the Muslim countries should rise up and fight both the mercenaries of Gaddafi and the rest of NATO."He feels confronting the enemies of Islam and waging a jihad against them require a Muslim authority, established on Muslim territory that raises the banner of jihad and rallies Muslims around it, which he wrote in a 2001 essay, Knights Under The Prophet's Banner."The way in which he was killed, by a military commando, shows this will have important consequences for the future," said Roland Jacquard, head of the International Terrorism Observatory in Paris. "It will be a call for Jihad, he will remain a very real-life martyr for the rest of the organisation," Jacquard told RTL radio. Islamic militants, who prayed the news of Osama's death to be false, vowed revenge in comments on online forums. "Oh God, please make this news not true... God curse you Obama," said one message on an Arabic language forum. "Oh Americans... it is still legal for us to cut your necks." A jihadist internet community read revenge would be taken for the death of "the Sheikh of Islam."As Obama and his nation rejoices the triumph and as the Islamist extremists count on their nerves, Time will wait to see what it means the killing of a man who killed many. Does the blood rushing in the human veins across the world sheds or continues to run, does the soil gets to turn red or stay embracing the green, does the sky romances only clouds or the villainous smoke takes over ? Along with Osama and all the devil's advocates, let terror and cries rest in peace, even if beneath the sea of solitudes.

Aphrodite

i had her signature on me

mie ruptured skin, the coarse paper

d crimson ink being mie blood...

she was no devil within

perhaps, was just a carnivore of the night

or, may be the might of a dark harlequin passion

spelled a cannibalistic witch in her

the scent she wore was painfully ecstatic,

her cascade reeked an enchanting cold hint...

but still,

she managed to burn me every single moment

release a stubborn phoenix in me --

again and again just to get reborn

though everytime with a weakening vigour...

that night the stars saw her be mie Chaos

the meteors feared she be mie Ilithyia...

what lasted a moment long

demanded to get greeted as ages...

with an unnecessary but everlasting false notion

of me being stronger to the beldame,

or should i say mie temptress pacifier,

slumber kissed goodbye as i rested

not inside her arms but inside her...

mie dreams told me that night

i won, i could make her cry,

i could make her shiver with pain...

but only to taste a willingly sweet defeat

losing all mieself forever from me

just to promise mie sorceress an infinite slavery...

Mr Valentine(s) Smile(s) one more time...

It marks the end of the second week of the second month of any year. But, the day stands singled out to get marked as a time when Love gets rejoiced every time it touches the calendarly human minds on many of its rambles round the sun.

They call it The Valentine's Day. February 14, xxxx AD.

The celebration apparently marks the birthday of a Mr. Valentine. Presumably a wise man, who was conferred an extra "hood" for his "saintly" gestures that was not quite possible to be executed by the lame mortals.

Records suggest numerous early Christian martyrs were named 'Valentine'.The namesakes, who are privileged to get remembered on Feb. (a score minus half a dozen, tickle your arithmetic) are Valentine of Rome and Valentine of Terni.

There was this Roman priest -- who was martyred about AD 269 and was buried on the Via Flaminia. This immortal's mortal relics lie at the Church of Saint Praxed, Rome and at Whitefriar Street Carmelite Church in Dublin, Ireland.

The other mister was an inhabitant of Terni, who became a bishop of Interamna (modern Terni) about AD 197 and was martyred during the persecution under Emperor Aurelian. His soul also rests on the Via Flaminia, but in a different location than Valentine of Rome.

Hail thee Valentines... I consciously as well as cautiously admit I couldn't manage know more about you, though accompanied by mie fellow humans I sheepishly get to celebrate your birthdays, which leaves me a scope to "deliver emotions" at mie own valentine(s) door in the form of some unearthly nothings, be it in whatever way - "ferns n petals" both. But mind you, this is no way selfless. We take the sweet initiative to call it a valentine and send hugs and kisses only to nurture at the back of our minds, that, let the "florish-networks" flourish and let the dove bring me atleast a leaf or a bark from mie Valentine, who stays in mie heart but, perhaps,resides somewhere else geographically.

The first gratified association of Valentine's Day with Romantic Love is in 'Parlement of Foules' penned by Geoffrey Chaucer in 1382.

Chaucer wrote: "For this was on seynt Volantynys day, Whan euery bryd comyth there to chese his make." [For this was Saint Valentine's Day, when every bird cometh there to choose his mate.]

However, I would prefer not to follow Chaucer in his league and would smartly disintegrate mieself in ideas to integrate "mating" with this particular date. Even if I do, I do not want to make mieself feel "Lonely ! I'm so Lonely... There's no 'bird'-ie to call mie own..."

Rest assured, I too queue up with mie fellow beings who make up the mankind and hail selfless love in its true Valentino spirit and score a goal with the straightness of mie scissor kick, cutting thru' the heart of a knowledgeable being of opposite sex much ahead of any cute little cupid striking her with his own galore.

However, Love comes lovely to those, whose greenbacks love their wallets. Worsening poses the world who can't afford that. And, their face is all the more uglier who dwell in the germinating "countries" of the globe-seed, which is still "developing".

The valentines' thing is historically new to the fastest developing portion of the seed called India. India, a nation more than a billion people strong, with a quarter living below the poverty line and where food inflation is almost touching a score percent.

"When Valentine's fever first struck India, it did result in a retail frenzy, but who'd have thought it would reach a whopping `12,000 crore (120 billion)? The aim of the study (done by ASSOCHAM Social Development Foundation (ASDF) from December 2010-January 2011) was to ascertain the extent of over-spending among lovers to make their loved ones feel special. And it seems that love birds splurge on Valentine's Day like there's no tomorrow," once read the country's leading newsdaily TOI on the D-Date.

Be blessed Mister Valentine(s), you are certainly not alone to get nurtured atleast once a year as a result of brimming Dopamine or Norepinephrine inside the brains of a two-legged-creature prancing on the planet with 'n' number of ways and means. The seven consecutive 24-hours preceding the Love Date lately has to go through the sweet torture in respective mirths and individualistic gaiety.

As a modern, outgoingly-advanced, dot-com-skewed global Indian, one should equip himself with a 'Rose' - the hybrids last the longest, though one may have to compromise with the smell; plan a formal and truly romantic 'Propose'; as Cadburys reminds that it's gonna be a 'shubharambh' - thus prompting to get a nicely decked 'Chocolate' - the bigger, the better. Then, taking into consideration one's wise enough to know how to instigate a soft corner in one's own valentine's heart, the only thing to be resorted to is none other a thing than a soft-toy. Softer the 'Teddy' that the Archies will manage to get, softer will be the corner assured in a Betty or a Veronica's heart. As smarter the approach gets, or perhaps, as mellow the mint gets sprayed, the rational animal gets pursuaded to "Be 'Kiss' Ready" and take his valentine in a tantalizing French valour. And finally, as is alwayz the case for a happily-ever-after story, he gets to 'Hug' his Valentine and the sun takes a plunge in the sea at the backdrop.

Hence, to make sure not to overlook even a slightest intricacy in the festivity of Love and Care, these virtually fastening fascinations are juxtaposed in an orderly fashion, which leads to dedicating each and every one of them a day to be experienced - 'the seven wonder'ful things marks the seven preceding days. Till the Valentine brings the day, which holds up all the feelings, sentiments, emotions in one joyful glee drenched in LOVE.

I stand nowhere close to salvation, nor do I stand te be declared a saint to decipher how Love is to be treated - what keeps it not just alive but lively - how and when to vouch for it. You need not be a Ritchie Rich or a Johny Bravo to have a Valentine. Alladin too got Jasmine and Tarzan, his Jane - remember!

So, go ahead and get splurged in all the pink emotions, as the season has been painted. If you still don't have a clue how to go about it, Cupid's on its way to strike you through and through, as in this regard and at this time ignorance about the celebration of LOVE is truly not a bliss. May you drown in caress or may you sink in cares - Love and get LOVED.

Bird-Love !

was another lame same morning she stood up after giving up the fights

to greet sleep as she doesn't visit her lately for nights after nights

all the chores stared glaring as silently as they wait all times

all the buzz kept buzzing outside, her place lonesome, tinkled the wind-chimes

the phone did not ring expected as usual it was time for the sweet scorn

first task to call up the city distant which nests nowadayz her lazy son

the handset lifted and rested back as a strange company that she see

a little bail of feather with life in it, a trespasser so cute it had to be

comprehensive - nay, not it was, nor did she knew which name to call

all she thought she had a visitor tiny and wondered wherefrom it had the crawl

the last time she had held something like it in hand was during her graduation labs

decades passed, she aptly forgot how to get the little one unhurt but in nabs

couldn't have left the tiny being all by itself, as she feared

taken unaware death just might kiss it, with flesh-eaters around as they reared

all work kept waiting with emphasis on the wall, the hour arm of the clock

smile paid a visit on her lips, as she wondered if it had gone astray from its flock

the daily routine tossed swing, she saw it's eyes were blue and wagged its yellow tail

with no clue, for what to do she tried consoling its fluttery frail

set the sun however, waiting for him and feeding the guest with zest for life

knowing the visitor belongs to the sky with herself her mind waged a nasty strife

he came home stuck with a strangely awe, not to the known their tidy hearth

then he found her own old lady playing with a kitten in a childish mirth

what is it? where it has come from? away right bounced the questions back

huh! she's been waiting to ask him the same since he left home morn, she her bed-pack

he came near, inspected clear it's a tiny bird, but didnt know wherefrom it had come

decided to welcome it to the family for then, else it would die as was weak and numb

he recalled his childhood days when a Kazooie called him its master

four closed walls which now rests mostly dust, dug out the old cage, now a ruster

then for days all stood good as chirpy got a new home and she found a mate

talkings and candy scoldings she also had the onus to decide what it drank what it ate

at times it used to sing and jump, while at others it loved to fly and dance

she thought all it did and will do owes it all to a timely glance

knowing it sure, an attachment so pure, she wished not to keep it captive anymore

with cage-door open, it flew out jet-speed, some hours and back to its shelter adore

so the family was intact and it was a cute understanding juxtapostion of trusts

until the ghastly hour sweeped in from hell and turned the sky pale, sending gusts

the cage plunged down in witness to a feline's frown who did not think twice

one blow further after the demonic-sent, last it breathed doom on an ice

they were out for a celebration the cause, so home-coming was unawarely jovial

the broken cage lied, blue feathers by its side, silence testimonial to death's scrawl

he had a memory so so similar, she entirely shattered almost all the same

so synonymous a feeling of losing one close, only the way it came remained to blame