I Will Sing Poem by Bishnupada Sethi

For a long while
I thought I'd stop singing—
the seats empty,
the lights gone dark,
the stage a ghost.
Who would miss the note
or mourn the show?

While drifting through the park,
my gaze was broken
by a distinct series
of hollow and wooden syllables
that pierced the quiet—
those of a small bird,
tucked deep in the leaves,
singing to no one.

A few steps on,
I turned aside
and found a bright canvas
of jasmine, tulip, marigold, rose—
spring announcing itself
without applause.

No one asks the cuckoo
why it sings
when the benches are bare.
It sings because it can,
because the song
is the proof of being alive.

So I'll sing too—
not for the crowd,
not for the light,
but because the voice
is still mine,
and silence
would be only death.