THE YELLOW HAWKWEED
They sing their own songs
In the spirit of light.
No, they do not take credit for that.
Nor, do they drain under dust and disdain
That suffers hollow minds.
They compose their verses in the wind
And revel at their spirits’ charm, or so as it seems.
They inspire dance in a dragonfly,
Touch in a bee, or a butterfly.
And quiver not at the bleat of a goat.
They do not complain, nor do they seek---
Attention, that spoil ribbons of love.
They bury moments in pure delight,
Unlike men that lose sight of purpose.
And coil under their own vulnerabilities.
They do not fantasize their own glory
Nor live a lie that do not define them.
They swell in pride with pure submission,
That, for man, would take years to fathom
As deliberate apprehensions rip off their minds.
They sing their verse, unheard, unsung
Revel, in the breast of Mother Earth.
They feel Her beat, Her heat, and in sweet surrender
Submit to the gallows of Time.
Though hated, sometimes scorned, undervalued
for their power to produce and reproduce.
For encroaching unknown territories,
Yet they don't complain, for they know
Love is for all and they are no exception.
Copyright ©
Aparajita Bhattacharjee
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