What The Old Trees Do Not Realize Poem by Jagannath rao Adukuri

The trouble is they want to remain homes
To the many homeless evening-birds
Which incessantly chatter to slum kids
Pouring out of their improvised shanties
With tin roofs glistening in the sun.
They do not realize even in their death
That our gardener’s three-stone stove
Is waiting impatiently for their dry logs
To arrive in its enormous, crackling fire.

(Concerning a withered tree in our Bhopal house which were unwilling to fell even after its death because it was the home to several birds)