The jackals mock the lions and tigers, the lesser,
The stream flows - no inclination whatsoever,
Neither the migrating deer cubs nor the alligators are favored.
It's the rule of the forest - the jungle's order,
That the horizon of hope never gets broader,
Or, shrink to null.
Every deed is void, every words are obeyed,
It's the song the tongs of fire ascribe upon the chest and lungs of the helpless birds -
Aubade.
The day begins with the roar of a Lion,
And, ends on the metal it faces,
And, the life it so much adored,
And, the death - it now embraces.
And, as the lights strikes upon the lead,
Casts a shadow - the humor of their own deed.
And, thus the ignorance reigns as the congruence lasts,
And, the parasites take-over as the predator fasts.
A new rule prevails - the rule with none,
Where the judgement begins with the dying sun.
And the mouth of migrators faces south.
The cold winter and grapes up high - couth.
Idyll.
- Prashanta Ojha
