The Song Of The Mystic Song Bird Poem by Mohabeer Beeharry

It sings.
Ceaselessly.

Night and day
Day and night.
A continuous and uplifting hum.

Now of a conch sound
Then church bell
And trickling water.

Now a rolling thud of thunder
A roar of the ocean.
And a prayerful chirp of homing birds.

But stop it does not.
It changes.
It furls
And it sprays like a fancy cascade.

Still I can hardly tell
From where it comes.

Not from the wood.
Not from the bush of bougainvilleas
That decks the village well
Where children play
And women laze.

Neither the hills nor the mountains
Have known song
So honeyed
And inebriating.

Astounded
They sit still.

Sweeter than those strummings in the trees
Ditties of the breeze in the morning
As it strolls from far and wide,
An enlivening mystery.

It stirs.
It soars.
It creates.
As like the sprays of a waterfall,
Reality and fantasy tumbling out.

Like the string
That passes through the hearts of the flowers
Holding the garland,
It holds the past and the present
The present and the future.

All on a sudden time seems to be only
A ridiculous piece of unclocked chase,
An unbroken horse.

They say time does not stop.
But it does
When I am drowned in that song,

A mellow and transcendental strain
Which thrills me.
And I say to myself

The sky would not be so blue,
The air so light and aureate
The flowers so exciting
If that bird had not been there.

As I sit quiet
And drink from it.

And in the serenity
Hills and mountains
Blossom.

Breeze blows
And rivers run
And endless garlands of creation rise
Still the mystic song pipes on, never to end.
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