The Cuckoo Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

The cuckoo is so dark black, dark, dark, pitch dark
Just like the black crow,
But sings it so sweetly all through the spring,
Madly in love,
Singing the songs of forests, blossoms and flowers,
Gardening and wild

Perched on the branches of a tree
And singing from there
With the tunes and sweetness of its own,
And the cuckold vibrating through
The midday and the midnight

The cuckoo so madly in love,
Seeing the trees in blossoms and green leaves,
The gulmohars in blossoms and reddish clusters
And the cotton trees with big, big flowers falling down
And the mahua blossoms falling down
From which the local wine is extracted

The bird pecking at, eating mangoes,
Sitting among the flowers,
Flying into the forest tracts, under the shady tree shades
And from there singing the songs of its own,
Sometimes by being oblivious of at midnight too
The song flowing down mellifluously.

The cuckoo’s song the song of life,
The world we dwell in,
Of forests, fine springs, flowery beauties, cool shades
And ripe fruits,
The song of the spring,
A world new and afresh

But mine a world worn by anxiety, care and loss
And bewilderment
And I picking up them to stitch
To make a world remade,
I do not know what it ails me,
Why am so different?