A blank white page is staring at me
And a pen that awaits my orders
And a heart choosing the ideas
And a mind that combines and filters
The tip of my pen kisses the page
In hopes of a muse that will fuel it
And a renewable but finite fuel
Is found in the cries of a Cuckoo
My pen writes- 'The cry of a Cuckoo'
Mind says- 'The lament of the Cuckoo'
But only the heart knows the language,
The tongue of truth that the Cuckoo sings
Maybe 'tis the cry of agony
O'er the intelligence of the crow
In detecting cuckoo's cryptic egg
That'd mixed in like a bitter sugar
Or just a plain old cry for a mate,
Maybe a sundown song rehearsal
Chance a bug may have clogged her lil neck
Among all reasons for cuckoo cries
But do we settle for simple things
Is not our imagination us?
I scribble off 'Cry of a Cuckoo'
Settling on 'The lament of the Cuckoo'
~Ajay
3/10/17
