The Mourning Bird.

It's when the birds take flight of the day,
back to their nests for an early respite
when I take flight from my daily cage,
to the terrace, to see the dying light.

Carrying a troubled mind of sums and equations,
every step of mine resonating with quotations.
Desperate to channel spasms of anger,
desperate to rekindle the old sense of academic ardor.

The vast blue expanse above is festooned with purple and gold,
the fraying clouds blotched with the hues of red, pink and orange,
little bits of cotton candy glide towards the sun,
who is showering the world with his last rays of glory.

Demure at heart,
fascination in my eyes,
at the sheer magnificence,
of the dying sunlight.

The silent mourning,
for the end that is about to arrive,
when the wind can no longer play me and I, with the wind,
Another long, sighing, night of captivity, of plight.