The Soul Of Birds


Premendra Mitra

Roaming the lonely wilds

I may chance upon the soul of birds.

No longer the mere pastures.

Neither the grains

Nor the bare burden only.

Now, the shining sweep,

The rebellious flout

That defies the world's puny pull.

In the fields and fen

They still peck at their feed

And evade nothing

Yet their heart-blood is warm

With the bluest of sky-blue oaths.

All the qualms and clamorous

In the turns and twists of life

Lodged deep in their heart

Like bullets from the hunter's gun

Dissolve and disappear

In that holy heat.

Only the brave sharp swift wings

Set no limit to the horizon

If ever this heart be utter alone

I may attain the soul of birds

Aware of another sun.

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