Wind-chimes in the verandah
have started singing the sunup song.
Discarded ones
hung on the curry tree,
are jiving too, albeit gently.
And the lawn is spotted
with tiny little winged friends.
Beautiful. Distinct.
I don't even know their names.
Some have a magnificent tuft.
Some have striking colors,
some, a mesmerizing plumage.
Each one busy, singing it's own song.
There,
midst the frangipani and electric power pole,
a squirrel is creating ruckus,
Constantly gnawing and squeaking.
Its tail going up and down in tandem,
with its chatter.
And the greens are, literally, swaying
to this outstanding composition
of mother nature.
And attuned to this riveting opus,
is the mortal man's daily routine.
Someone is praying.
Someone is sweeping,
dusting and brooming.
Someone is busy managing the laundry.
And someone...
well, someone has already begun
the day's dash.
I have also attempted another version in Punjabi
Welfare unto all
Rab rakha
