And I followed him -
that odd little flying object
traversing oblique paths in the sky,
in search of something unintelligible
against the winds that blew him away,
against the birds that went the other way.
The crazy bird.
Higher and lower, and
straight and circular,
and almost random - he went
like an animate cyclone in the sky.
Impeded by monstrous branches
of envious trees
Quarantined by the flocks
of the birds he flew with
was the crazy bird.
And as fell the rain -
harsh and fast,
the homeless creature -
stood all aghast.
Marred by foes, and
betrayed by friends,
he flew alone -
battling tough winds
and demonic clouds.
Alone. The crazy bird.
Thirsty, he flew.
Hungry, he grew.
In search for self, and
answers that the sky had
enveloped in many a million voids
that nobody knew of but him.
And he flew -
attacked but survived
murdered but alive.
Alone he flew -
that crazy bird.
He dotted the sun
over a crowded mosque;
attended bhajans
from a temple's edge;
and wept on a church's tall tower
to enshrine himself in god's own den.
Flew he once again,
high and higher,
bustling with desire,
soaring the sky.
Into the frayed ends of day,
and arcane realms of night,
into the voids enclosed by the sky
lingering upon the suspense that grows in them.
High, went he
staging a worldly escape
with his sparkling flight.
And higher he went -
the crazy little thing -
fading into a place, where
the day meets the night
beyond the fringes of the world's shadow,
to a surreal layer of the universe, where
there is no pain and no tomorrow.
