The Cuckoo Bird

By Siddhartha Ranjan Misra

I lay awake in my bed, fighting the urge to sleep in the hour before dawn

As I witnessed the magnificence of nature, while I stood still like a pawn

It was not night anymore, neither had it turned into morning

A cuckoo bird graced my window and took over its stage for performing

She sang the notes of such pulchritude, the ones that had once inspired the greats

The hymns she sang felt holy enough, to be the carrier through heaven's gates

The knowledge of symphony had may be originated from her throat, maybe the melody came from the flapping of her wings

She dances and calls to those awake, for those weary souls she sings

I draped a smile on my cracked lips, a one which seemed somewhat familiar

My soul seemed to leave my abode, into a journey it crossed the river

I could see the floor of bricks beneath, the boundaries painted in white

A look around made me lose my balance, I could no longer believe my sight

It was the garden where I had played, in the days when I was a child

Wherein there were gatherings of the neighbourhood, as in the nights we would run free and wild

The grass still smelled the same, the trees I had sown had grown

It still laid there to trouble those who passed by, that one uneven stone

The colour of the house still hadn't dried, as it left its residue on my palm

It still stood unshaken after all these years; its touch still made me calm

The door had changed over the course of years, I wondered what happened to the old

The one on which I used to hang to be tall, the one that was coloured in gold

As I took a step in and turned to my right, oh it all came back like a wave

The room of mine, which never saw the face of light, which I would often refer to as my cave

The walls seemed to smile at my return, the confidantes of my tears and smiles

The floor still had imprints of my feet, for I had paced across it for miles

The empty shelf on the corner, which used to be a testament to the glory

Covered now with dust, it shines no more, epitomizes the human story

Still, there was preserved a mark on the edge, a symbol of my rabid behaviour

And then there were the marks of my bed, forever my biggest saviour

Crossing the threshold, I walked into the room in which past resided

It witnessed many a duel, where the young and old collided

There once lived a soul, distant yet affectionate galore

Nothing ever seemed to be less for him, nothing ever seemed to be more

He was consumed in his own thoughts, who knew what they might have been

His eyes dyed white, and pupils contracted, maybe enough, he had seen

Walking out into the courtyard, I was taken back to the days of my learning

Where my mother would teach me while I jumped around, for her, it seemed her earning

The days of winter when the sun would shine bright, the floor became our bed

I would lay down on a mat and fall asleep, while she would gently caress my head

The first month of the year, when we would call out the ravens, was just so fulfilling at the time

While we would wait for our turn to receive our share, of a few candies and a dime

Across the street, there was a shop, which would count on us for spending

Our hard-earned money for a minute of work, which somehow remained unending

And then there were days of the golden summer, where the trees would lose their sheen

The earth would crack under the pressure of our star, the grass no longer remained green

The hot gusts of wind crashing on the windowpane would terrify my timid soul

My mother would hold me closer to herself, while she would cover my face with her stole

The days of the monsoon brought with them, the earthy smell in the air

My father and I would look out the window, and enjoy the rain on a chair

I would often walk out into the rain, to be a part of the grand scheme

While my sister would run her pen across the paper, scribbling her rhyme and theme

I remember where I sat when I broke my heart, I could still hear my faint lament

The desolate corner remains untouched, no one has appeared to be its claimant

The colours still decorate the garden, though it all seems a bit dry

Maybe I'll water the memories of the old, they are waiting for me to cry

A gentle drop rolled down, a reminisce of the days of innocence

While I lay my head atop a pillow, slaving through my comeuppance

Wherein the thoughts have taken over, having stayed in confinement for so long

While all it took for me to dive into the ocean of nostalgia, was a cuckoo’s song...

By Siddhartha Ranjan Misra