THE CRIPPLE
I saw a ruffled bird along a path
Where I often cruise to have my bath
Crippled with oozing sore all night
Staring at the sun for might.
Beside her lie torn garments and plates.
I guess she uses them to beg till eight
I am whispering about eight at night.
She was lonely, like a sloth
No straws or logs to build a hut.
"May be the universe was against her? "
I thought.
Though, I wanted to glare into her heart
To know how she felt
But I felt it's white to mind myself.
Then, I poked a silvery coin into her bowl
While she bursts in a kindled growl.
And, in her crystal balls, blue oceans unfold.
Does the Galapagos Finch have to chirp?
Before we learn to help?
Well, I guess it doesn't.
It starts from a drop
Before a table top.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem