How can a cuckoo sing in
The concrete jungle of man
Where the trees were coated
With dust and carbon emissions
Of city, when the spring failed to
Visit the garden in its own season?
In the city of man in spite of
Millions of people buzzing about,
Time has the upper hand;
It is only the voice of time
That is heard super-ceding
All the millions of voices of men!
Time descends on the chest of man
Like an iron eagle of gigantic shape
And ruthlessly throttles man's voice.
I have to fly away in search
Of my own green hills of silence
Where trees are the saints of love!
~*~
In these beautiful hills
There are no days and dates.
The time, which chased me
To this place collapsed, unable
To follow me through the leafy
Melodious labyrinths of the hills;
Strange trees, Strange flowers,
Strange birds, Strange waterfalls,
Smiling and defiant beautiful hills
And immense solitude, that sleeps
In the heart of hills; all colluded
And wove a magical web of silence
In which, Time was caught like
A tiny fly and met its perfect death!
The unpolluted condition
Of pure life in the hills alone
Allowed me to breathe again!