propinquity of spring

Certain, hidden bird sings,

Symbolizing the freshness of the springs

And whistles like a music conductor

Resenting at, the wrongly played strings.

On pomegranate tree, it hides,

This the place, where it resides,

And eats, from the beady, half-eaten fruit

Opened, by the wind’s harsh strides.

Dancing leaves, appear askew,

Looking, all fresh, green and new,

Made lively, by the magical music,

Bidding winters, an honest, “adieu”!

This part of the year,

When the summer, seems to be near,

But, the Sun, still glows modestly,

And yet the cold is severe.

Propinquity of spring, one may call,

Newness, in life, one may recall,

Yet the setting-sun has softness,

Of winters, at the night-fall.

Moon, at night, appears forlorn,

Quite lonely and woebegone,

As people stare, no more, at her,

And praise, only, the sun-filled morn.