'Beauty is truth, truth is beauty'-John Keats, Ode to a Grecian Urn. Bathed in the light of my imagination, Soaked in the cloud of truce and tranquillity, Surrounding the aged palms and greens, Lived a female cuckoo with a bubbling beak. Her plaintive call, matched with a nightingale, Suffused my innate sensations with glee. Her song more like a speech for the day, The day of realisations to a wandering soul. Questioning on her alienation and beatitude, The composition and the tone unmatched, My belief, she became an instant mocking bird. A while later she sang only to me.
Solitariness, no cause for soul's solitude, Togetherness no reason to unsee and unearth, The beauty in you and the things you see. His presence is a phase momentary, beyond is by you. Traverse the nodes, the lyrics you compose, The tune of your tone, be just yours! On seeing a mate who just flew in, She paused to resume her delightful voice. Profound beauty is vested in love merely, Love everything around, live every while you see. A yearning mind for a loving friend, Made me sing with her, beyond the bay, He heard me!