The Unborn!

When the evening descends
The flying bird knows not to fly any more.
Folding its wings neatly,
It sits upon the boughs of the solitary Jamun tree,
And starts pruning its feather wearily…

The Time sings –the darkness dances…
In the soft monologues of the night
The bird thinks of the Golden Sun
With a pondering heart
And the jungle hums…

As the blue fairy waves and announces
The desolate entourage of the Nocturnal Spirit …
The bird sits very still now
And listens to every sound
That lies still unfolded –

In the womb of the night- The Unborn…