To a man, the death of a bird,
Thereâ??s no meaning in that word,
For birds do live or die,
Matters little to the human eye.
To me, the death of a bird,
Ushers a touch of gloom in that word,
A depressed sense of sorrow,
Deep in my heart over a sparrow.
Of all the places around,
How the little sparrow found,
A roof-hole, for its groom,
In my busy class room.
They both settled inside,
The tiny nest of their pride,
Flirting and searching,
Caressing and perching.
Their shrill and sharp noise,
As they flew across,
Tilted my mental peace,
Keeping me ill at ease.
My superior complex forbade,
Their trespass over my head,
Out of they flew, at my chase,
But back they came, in retrace.
Their unbreakable obstinacy,
Won over my supremacy,
As I got reconciled to them,
With the passage of time.
A straw or a feather drop,
From their tiny nest atop,
I threw out from my bench,
Thereafter without a grumble.
What a shocking fatal day,
The ever remaining sparrow gay,
Fell dead, belly ripped open
By the speeding ceiling fan.
There remains still the tiny hole,
And my past memories of the bird's role.
Lo! The bleeding lifeless sparrow's body,
Lies in state before me even this day.
