Bird Prattle Poem by P S Manojkumar .

If rocks hadn't grown,
in places trees vacated,
we birds would be
in a sad plight.
Our species might suffer
extinction
or become refugees.
Fledgling with wind knowledge
fluttered its wings in the sky,
sitting in a life-sized statue
in the city center.
Gazed at effigies - busts
Erected in streets and junctions.
Talked to the mother bird.

The bird mother
Spread its wings,
strutted to remain
in the same place,
replied,
'My child, these are not
rocks grown.
These are hero images
birthed in bronze, stone, and iron,
spending lakhs or crores in money.

We are sitting on top of them.
That's why, child,
we feel they are weak.
For people,
they are very strong iron men.

They believe
a wave of their hands
will stretch to stars.
In bearing down with their feet,
Earth will stop its rotation.
The sun will not rise or set
if they stare at it.
There are stories sung
for them.
They presume
the beats of the world
lie at their fingertips.

Are they iron men?
Looking at the
stumbling, creeping,
perspiring, and panting
men in the hot sun.'
The baby bird looked surprised.

Opening the repository of stories,
the bird began assiduously.
'These are not of the stuff
rushing vulnerably beneath us.
Born from human seed,
they are supreme men.
Do you know
how many lives are
lost in smelting?
How much blood spilled,
how many dreams destroyed,
how many rapes justified,
rapes seen
as a way to success,
celebrated as a tribute to winners,
gives a human
the visage of
an iron man.

Now standing like rocks
in this street impassively.
They are the human images
who stood smiling
over dead bodies
with no hesitation.
They have drawn
from decaying dead
feed for growth
to become broader and bigger names.

They may even be revered as gods
by some worshippers among men
in the coming ages.'

The baby bird stood aghast,
thinking of the cluster around,
birds drooping in the
scorching sun,
falling from electric lines.
The lament of the flock
rippled in the memories of the fledgling.

After a moment of silence,
the mother bird flapped its wings
and continued with ease.
'But we birds
realize
the actual worth
of iron men.
By defecating on the heads
of those who became sculptures,
we are asking the iron men
the payment for bygone eras.
We will keep on asking it.'

Translated from Malayalam by Bindu Jagadeesh