Fledglings in parental nest

Way-lost as if we live in hoary past-- In epics of hist’ry poets have sung, In portraits of culture, hoisted on mast, Still, where are old glories, save on the tongue? One knows of few people, east bound or west, That live so long, linger on what had been-- Fledglings as if in love of parent’s nest, Forgetting, there await pastures lush green. Long parroted have we paeans on rote, Walked on ways walked ere, scarce treaded paths new, Enough gargling of old glories we gloat On, time to hone, burnish history's hue, O t’be the seagull soaring high o’er earth, Not one marooned, ever short of self-worth. _____________________________ Sonnet | 06.07.2017, revised September 2024| Poet’s note: Since this sonnet was written in 2017, a lot has happened in a decade, rather made to happen. India has made long strides to become the fifth largest economy. And yet, the country has a vast ground to cover. There are those that liked to live in reflected glory of the past. And their tribe seemed to be on the rise. But one cannot live in past. One wishes we had woken up long back. This is an elegy on lost opportunities in a sonnet form.