THE LAST OF MOCKING BIRDS

POEM NO. 1

(As a part of friendly poetry challenge on Facebook; 

nominated by poet and friend, Pijush Kanti Deb)

If a life could grow in mists,
she was the finest hypothesis;
the noon brought its guests:
leather shoes, nylon nets,
poachers arrived and camped,
voices strengthened the plans-
she waited, silent in shrubs,
one slip of beak...death at dusk!

Freedom isn't a free country.
Life isn't a colleague's theory.
A blazer hides a hesitant heart,
can a watch buy one's fragile past?
Love stays in bookmarks of novels,
romance is a mere metric of progress-
maturity is filing a divorce,
confidence is marrying twice,
who cares for the sons?
They shall soon be grown-ups
just like our neighbours',
a divorce isn't that much!

She waited...silent in shrubs,
one slip of beak...death at dusk!
A man aimed his slingshot
at a sparrow's nest at spot;
the eggs were new,
she was sorry, she knew!
Suddenly, she chirped
the sparrow's best part;
the man just turned half
released the rubber.
...
She felt no wings,
but she would die in peace
for the sparrow
wasn't hurt
all because of
her, the last mocking bird!