The Call

THE CALL

    Silent poachers of the unspoken being
    Are keen on earning an honest living;
    While a friend stands helpless and unhappy,
    Are the woods really calling me?

    The woods are calling me; the woods are calling me;
    The sweet chirpings of the morning tree;
    Am I that ungrateful that I should not know,
    The grief of the lone seed that I sow.

    Pictures of it I would show
    To the children of the morrow for they should know;
    If ever they open their eye on this earth
    Without our friends, only on the funeral of our mirth.

    When the morn opens up with a golden hue
    And the day breathes the eyes with drops of dew;
    For if we do not realize the cost of a tree
    There will neither be you, nor me.

    The woods have called us enough
    It is our chance to repay the loan;
    life would not be enough for us
    And in despair we shall all moan.

    So don't just ponder and fold your hand
    Get up and show them your solid stand;
    For they should also realize that we care
    Together the evil pain we will bear.

~AZHAR~

More Poems By Azhar

Kavitanjali