The book Age Of Survival my collection of poems is available in all major online book outlets.
I don’t know how many of you ever read my poem “Song Of The Dying Nightingale” my favorite poem from the book “Age Of Survival” Thatpoem took about 10 years for me to figure out and write. There isreality, dream and pure fiction in it. You all may be thinking why am Isaying this. To really understand the following poem one need to scrolldown and find the recital of “Song Of The Dying Nightingale” at theleft hand side of this site. Listen to it. Then read this poem. I wrotethis poem as an aftermath to that poem.
Lastnight I was sitting in my room and it started raining, the rain dropshitting hard on the window glass. Then I remembered when I was astudent in Mysore, India, it is one of the mornings when it was rainingbadly I first heard the sound of that bird. I learned to speak andwrite English language to express what I felt. Now I am writing againabout that same bird. This time there is nothing real, just a feelingfrom a memory and rest is fiction.
Enjoy my friends, countrymen and of course…. My Darling. You all have the best of all weekends.
Blessing Of A Nightingale.
Darker everything they made,
Darker everything looked,
When upon the windows the cold drops shattered,
For a moment mind in the chill swayed.
Only the drizzle and my breathe broke the silence,
And drags of air in the autumn cold in my chest filled,
The phantoms of a dreamy past my only companions,
When breath grow longer, in the dream they joined,
Hand in hand for a wild old dance.
A cold wave from the glass window caressed my face,
And every bit of a beautiful dream erased,
When consciousness to my material being stormed,
Ah’ I said as the feeling in my mind still remained.
Then through the window I saw,
Sitting on the wide edge of the window,
A bird all wet, in the cold, shivering,
Without making a move to the eyes of bird I looked,
As the bird deep into my eyes looked as if in compassion,
Oh’ then the dream I remembered,
When in my younger days every morning I heard,
The sad tune of a bird in sadness sung and with sadness I listened,
And me holding the featherless corpse of that sad singer,
Pledging “I will rather live as a broken hearted,
Than break any lovers heart” I remember my own hand trembling,
Holding the corpse of that bird in sadness,
Whom never ever in all prettiness I have seen.
From my thought I got out still looking at the bird,
Looking at me the bird to the side took off,
And through the cold, windy rain flown far, far away.