A cuckoo sits
on the branches
of a mango tree..
Hidden within leaves,
away from the onlookers,
and he sings.
With the same voice,
Coo coo, coo coo,
morning or evening
day or night,
repeated, intermittent,
be slow or being loud.
It waits and listen,
the sounds of faraway,
or near it's place.
Some voices of its friends,
or the competitive enemies,
seeking their maiden.
He hears a sound,
mimicking his own,
with a different pitch,
joyful he was,
so stopped and listen,
beautiful melody he was seeking.
But it was a tease,
fallacy of another species,
clever and copy whistle.
Realizing his mistake,
enraged as hope dashed,
he shrieked and squalled.
The whistle thus stopped,
only silence remained,
in the evening shadow.
He took a deep breath,
and started refreshed,
his routine of singing.
The summers were hot,
sometimes rain too fell,
as he sat drenched.
The fruits get laden,
welcoming for a feast,
but unwavering, he keeps singing.
The wait was long,
desires so strong,
as he sat on his treasured tree,
he wondered, and pondered,
doubting his song,
why the song is not reaching...
his fair maiden.
Even today if you pass,
the big Mango tree
by the wall,
with the large pavement.....
You will still hear,
a beautiful melody,
a little lonesome and sad,
yet a proud.... Cuckoo's song.
