Author: Pritisha
On a dark day,
Wings of the feathered creatures were taken away.
Hearts devoid of any emotion,
The soul and body wanted to be in the belly of an ocean.
The wounds were still too fresh
Burned and bruised was the flesh.
The next day did not bring upon the break of the dawn.
The birds said they would sleep till the winter was gone.
Life was devoid of the breath of fresh air
Doubtful thoughts and sorrow-embraced despair.
The sun was still set, no twilight, no dusk.
The sun did not rise, but one fine night the moon rose.
There were no more woes
The wounds had healed
And the eyes had dried.
There came a ray of hope
that straightened the slope.
In the silence of the night their chirps were heard
and so were the songs of the bird.
Now we are no more wingless
We are not fragments of souls that are meaningless.
