A bird flew towards the pond, its feathers a-glow,
sat on at one side of its bank, where the willows grow.
It looked out upon the water, so calm and so still,
and started a conversation, with a gentle thrill.
'You poor pond, don't you feel dumb,
Lying in one place, just waiting for others?
I feel pity at times as I pass by,
For your life is so quiet, without any fuss or sigh.'
The birds that sing so sweetly up high,
the small creatures that crawl and scurry by.
The trees so tall, they reach the sky,
the river roaring, with fish swimming by
It's a beautiful sight, that's for sure,
who could deny that this jungle is pure?
The wonders of nature are amazing to see
look around, how beautiful this jungle can be!
Oh Pond, please speak to me and share your grief,
I am eager to listen no matter what's your brief.
The pond looked up at the bird, with a ripple and a smile,
'Ah, but my life is not so dull, my dear bird, all the while.
Your cheerfulness gives us all such joy,
no one else can make us feel this way without a ploy.
So nice of you to feel my pain that's not,
I am happy go lucky, I don't need to roam like you all.
I am home to so many, a haven and a rest,
a place where the fish swim, and the frogs take their nest.'
You come to me to quench your thirst,
I can make that happen without any fuss.
The bird listened to the pond's words, with a tilt of its head,
'I never thought of it that way, my dear pond, I am fed.
Your depths are so deep, your waters so clear,
a place of beauty, where life is held dear.'
So the bird and the pond sat, in the sun's warm light,
and shared their thoughts and stories, without a fight.
For though they were different, they saw the same,
a world full of wonder yet so mundane.
Excellent idea, very insightful, philosophical poem.But so sadly I am commenting that we, human beings never think in this line.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
What a brilliant poem, I like such philosophical conversations, it show the depth of the creativity of the poet and the strecth of him imaginations.