The Cry of Birds

I stand by the stream,

With everything fresh, healthy and evergreen,

The tall willow trees reaching the sky,

The snow covered peaks behind- high, very high,

The birds chirp like the flute,

The immortal ragas in my pursuit,

The running deers and cheetahs,

Write an epic of struggle,

In my heart and soul,

I pray with closed lips,

And hear the voice of Almighty,

In the sparkling beauty of nature.

Then I see to my surprise-

Those cruel butchers,

They cut the trees and kill the birds,

And call themselves "HUMANS"

Ah! They laugh at their victory 

And go away,

And what remains you know?

Yes but the burnt nature,

And the artificial desert,

And also few of wounded crying  birds,

Cursing us for our deeds!