Song of the Bird

Where we jostle
Through the harassing crowd
In pursuit of
An El Dorado
Of deep hidden dreams
Latent wishes
Toil
Under the fiery sun
Sweating, suffocating,
Where we lose count of hours spent
Before the machine
One that rumbles
Other programmed
Where the flow of creativity
Seems obstinately,
Even, helplessly plugged.
Amidst cold wintry fog
Shivering, chilling
In mindless frenzy
We play the game
Thrust upon us
And which we invent too.
Where bereft of
That streak of spontaneity
We continue
To meander through the maze.
When …in a subtle
Moment of metamorphosis
In the twilight glow
And clusters of bloom
We hear -
The song of the bird.
It is then we discover
the stark contrast –
The melody of freedom and growth
And the lives of ours – stunted
Utter bonsais.