The Flight.

A tale of a little dark plumed bird, I write,
The winged creature,not much of a sight.

The red beaked,a frail little insignicant bird,
Amidst the leaves,at day break she stirred.

Her songs spoke of no melodious tune,
When others sang,her voice drowned,all too soon.

But the bird unconcerned,paid no heed,
She hopped and skipped,happy indeed.

One fine day,of the sun she caught sight,
She was drawn,moth like to the spectrum of light.

She could no longer hold the forest dear,
Her eyes fixed on the sun-kissed sky,clear.

She soared to take a closer look,
In anticipation,like a wind swept leaf,she shook.

She sang all the way up,wind borne,
Imagining,to her,the sun did beckon.

Alas! her wings singed,she fell,
She spiralled down,from heaven unto hell.

She lay in Nature's breast,
Uttered no cry,heart to the earth pressed.

The clouds rained drops benign,
Unmoved,to her fate she did resign.

She hobbled around,shorn of wings to fly,
Her wings healing,or at least giving a try.

Maybe the little creature,
Oneday,again in the sky,will feature.

But that is only Time's call,
Before she can rise,perhaps,for another fall!        
                                                                      Chandni.