In early morning on the door of window,
A pigeon would come empty is its beak;
Alike teary eyed child who returns home,
Longing to be greeted with mother’s recipe as treat.
Few millets, no more & the day is spent,
To & fro from one window to next,
another;
Betwixt being in transcendence or
restlessness,
Spending days nights in alone rather.
Be it incessant rains or the scorching
sun,
A sulking night or when full moon burns;
Is it a frog in well or boat ashore,
In either, restricted space it adores.
Would greet who comes, but never let it
stay,
Ain't pugnacious it seems, to be the
case;
Seasons changed but not its place,
Unfathomable, had it never joined or won
the race! :)
© Pranav Chaturvedi 2022