Sparrows are benign,
their textures are so fine.
They are like the soft sands,
within them
you could scarcely see the remnants
of any snatching
upper hands.
Neither there
are sets of pungent beaks or fangs,
nor there
are deadly clasp
of dispensing pangs.
Amongst them
belligerence is so mild
even more benignant
than the unruffled skin of
a guiltless child.
They are so acquiescent.
Even though so minuscule and fragile
in number
so incessant.
Also so concordantly
on the trees, they are adrift,
although so noisy,
they are so sedately swift.
Swiftness that lifts them to fall
so softly like sands
through the hourglasses' rift:
now,
on the turn
of their pivotal shift.
Sparrows are like spring
persistently thriving,
reviving,
in their perseverant driving,
in their permanency and surviving.
Though so minuscule
yet they are unceasing,
in
chanting
they are exuberantly
increasing.
They are like asperous mountains which summarize
to the rocks, to the sands,
to the equals with no upper hands
to the forces which expand
through an hourglass’s
diminutive strand.
