“ Of what these bewitching calls,
whistled long from a tree? ”.
Waking up at five in a Spring-morn
I sought an answer from the watchman
of a school near the Eastern Coast.
“The cuckoo is vocal here sir”,
he said and fell to his sleep.
What a mystic note of the bard
sending into oblivion the banal cries
of the birds, we often see!
“Is the melody tragic or merry? ”
A pensive poet will be inspired with
unwept tales of sorrow so much.
A blithe poet will slip into wonder
tasting the tunes of the songster.
I waddled towards the tree
to have a glimpse of the bird.
But the music came now from a mango.
I raced towards that tree a little away
but the call now was showered from a tree afar.
Till the mid-June, I relished from its bounteous songs
but repined at not glimpsing that black warbler.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem