Daeth of a Bulbul

Poor bird -
you lie near the tracks,
rested on the open grave of senseless ballasts.
Perhaps struck down
by a train’s wheel,
rushing blindly in unemotional speed.

And it looks like you’re trying to say something,
calling out for help or a final word.
But your open mouth is frozen forever
and the tunes it cried are lost in time,
amid the restless din of normalised madness.
Or maybe you were taking back food for home
after a day of selfless labor.
Nobody would know.

But I can rewind your life.
It looks like you were a simple and kind soul:
For death don’t come easy to the crooked.
You were hardworking and strong,
for you died on the field and where few
but the brave
dare to glide.

Death makes one look so helpless.
You might have sketched the mighty skies
and sailed uncurbed through many a storm.
You had a family:
Where are they?
Are they still waiting for your return
at the pulpit of the half-woven nest?
Who will wipe their dammed tears
and protect them from inexorable grief
that pulsates their frail hearts?

But what oddly draws me to you?
Why do I wish to stand here for hours?
Am I being selfish - seeking comfort by swallowing your pain ?
Or am I just human - looking for a company?

‘Life goes on’ - the unholy cliche
which misguides our civilisation -
will take over the brazen truth of death;
will turn humans to zombies;
will promote divisions, and war, and apathy, and evil.

But your death was not in waste.
Much so as Caesar’s or Jesus’.
It’s like a neutron killing a heavy nucleus.
Creative destruction.
Disrupt. Disrupt. Disrupt.