The Crazy Bird

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.