Kuthuchoodu, Kuthuchoodu, the bird sound comes
Where the old men feel it as bad omen in village
The death is coming, coming, it proclaims
The old generation thinks in superstition
Sound vibration have no relevance in death
The poor bird still sings its song in night
Attracting the pair it seeks as companion
Somewhere sits in trees of compounds adjacent
And still sings 'Kuthuchoodu Kuthuchoodu'
May be saying it is severe drought and may it rain
The poor bird and poor old men always worry
No substance at all for such superstitions
And rational thoughts have already wiped out them.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem