Cuckoo

May every morn be spring morn!
Coos the cuckoo at every dawn.
Yon, smell of young mango buds,
Blowing from green woods.
On the terrace corner,
A thrilling voice starts to murmur,
Awaking me from deep slumber.

I know not its theme,
Nor I know rhythm.
Still, how sweet strain!
With total ignorance of pain.
Soars she gaily in the sky,
Seldom appears in shy.
Shall I hear till I die!