Just Like I Traveller I Keep Passing Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

As a traveller, I keep seeing,
Passing through the hilly and wooded terrains,
Full with the palash trees,
Standing leafless,
But in clusters,
Reddish-reddish, florid and hanging onto
As bunches
And the blackly cuckoos pecking in,
Cooing from
In spring.

The palash trees small-small, wild-wild
With the leaves shed completely,
Small-small but leafless,
But with the blossoms
Clustered around and hanging by
And the during the sojourn
Cuckoos pecking in
And singing sweetly from
And engulfing the hilly terrain,
Where there is none,
But the Santhali tribal houses
Dotting the area,
Spread over.

In that solitary, manless haunt,
Full of ups and downs, highlands and lowlands,
Stony, rocky and hilly
With the rivulet passing through,
Streaming in between the hills,
Passing on,
Going down to
Musically or silently,
There is none to see and view
The beauty of the palash blooms,
Small-small, wild-wild,
Florid and ornate
Hanging by the tree.