To a Buffalo is a bizarre aspect,
Cause he cares not
Who is going to taste his meat,
Fried, Roasted or Grilled.
To a Lion is a matter of mean
Stance and low profile,
As he hunts, mates and rules
His domain on his will alone.
To Flamingo is a disgrace,
When comparing her voyage,
The thousands of unfriendly miles
Over the desolate seas.
To Cuckoo is against her audacity;
By tradition has her eggs hatched
In cosy cage of a crow’s toil
That demands not any repute.
Even to a blind fish is
Imagination an aspect inane,
As waters, mud flats, river banks,
Are blessings of food and shelter.
A polar Bear or Eskimo dreams
Not an absolute weather transition;
From frozen white winter
To a sweating sore summer.
No mention of a Mango’s wish
To taste like an Apple ever found
In timeline, Nor vice versa,
As nature in her rules is so sharp.
Only Man is not done
With What and Who He is.
Something that subsides the
Desires of an edgy heart, who
Silently perching on idle seat is
Mastering the art of imagination
By browsing, posting and reviewing
The fallacies and faculties of the
Fascinating human factor;
Which he considers a boon,
But in fact is a curse insidious
That lures him into the blank
Voids of answerless questions
And irrational interpretations.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem