Like a fallen feather ,
She carries no identity of her origin.
From the roof to the ground ,
crushed by the rain ,
burnt by the Sun's rays .
She still doesnot die out.
How resilient , how hopelessly tireless
yet so fragile and rigid both ,
defining herself in her own ways .
〰〰
I see her she flies with the wind
just the way it needs her to do.
With the uneven flow ,
Her little whiskers
sometimes glow.
I donot know who will catch her once in a while , pick her up ,dust her and adore ,
May be rub her against their skin
Or keep her inside their book,
Forget and years later they may put back a casual or who knows ! Even an intense nostalgic look ?
〰〰
Till they release her and
she will fly back into her nomadic life again ,
but with their scents lingering on her
Heavy with burdening paid ,
Who knows will that wash away on the
thousandth day of the rain !
She has no home ,
The Maverick is no home.
The hippie is destined to roam.
Look she flies away,
What is she searching for ?
Meaning of life ?
Or a place where she can adorn a room ?
Or trying to find where lies the journey's final end ,
the burning ground of her silent doom ..
.
.
With each bard carrying hues of trails of unspoken vivid tales ,
The bohemian cannot rest ,
In no dusk and in no new dawn ,
Where there is no return call from any nest ,
I watch her silently flying away into the oblivion.
I watch her silently flying away into the oblivion.