The morning air resounded unanimously,
With the winged ones singing in unison;
Proclaiming the daybreak and the dawn;
To the awakening with the cock’s crowing.

A single crow cawing merrily to the clouds,
A troupe of bulbuls grooming for life;
Each calling for their little chirps;
Which twitter in the sun-baked nest gaily.

An ape clambering from tree to tree,
Swinging by its tail in the gale;
Calling merrily of his lost brethren;
Mankind, never to lose the best for good.

Golden grains in the forsaken husk,
Could but bring sudden awe;
To the primary man who irked;
Wrought the four seasons with ego.

Uncouth stony bump in the clay,
Could but be cumbersome and weary;
To the potter who moulded with grace;
The clay on the wheel for hours on end.

Revolting man against nature’s freshness,
Showering doom upon nature’s muteness;
Wouldn’t it be irksome for someone?
When man spoilsports His creativity of ages.