Hope

What could Hope be, but a bird?
That soars in from somewhere and perches
On a decrepit branch of a falling tree
Beneath whose feet lie senescent leaves:
Yellow-brown, crispy, inedible chips,
Leaves that in their Sunday green best
Had once rustled and flirted
With eve-teasing winds on the move;
Hope, a lone bird, whose whistle echoes
The farthest corners of a vulnerable forest
Watching the crematory surface-fire
Devour blowdown twigs, homeless leaves,
Perennial grasses, shrubs and duff,
All volatile: rattling, unnerving,
Intimidating fire whirl,
Gory, effulgent tentacles,
Interspersed with fearful splutter,
Almost drowning the song of Hope;
The retardant rain roars down,
Halting the menace with soldiery valour;
In a single stroke Hope
Paints a seven-color zebra crossing
On the cirrus-scattered, cerulean sky
For dreams to venture into better times;
The sun dotingly strokes branches
Into an exhilarating foreplay, drowsing
The forest in delirious fecundity;
In unnoticeable dark privacies
Night prepares antithesis:
Leaves, flowers, fruits
That wake up mornings with the medley
Of sounds of birds, animals, insects,
The beauty of silent flying colors
Flitting from bud to bud,
The relentless labour of bees and ants;
Another spell of rain bathes all alike
Feathers and furs,
Buds and brambles and burs,
The once denuded forest reverberates:
Music, lights, actions, colors, fragrances,
Nectar and honey;
Hope soars to another wilderness
To return when wanted most by us
Or how else how shall we enter Future,
How shall we survive onslaughts of Time:
Hope, an inviolable refuge
Under whose cozy feathers
A newly hatched existence
Struggles to hold Light!