The Gift

Dawn's horizon still very dark,
the first yawn's of the lark,
a distant dog's intermittent bark,
the first glimpse of sun's arc,
in my heart, kicking a spark.

The first rays of the morning,
the shadows of the awning,
the growing clarity of brightness
slaining obscurity of darkness.

The first drizzle on the shore,
pleasantries of the petrichor,
myriad moods of the rain:
farmer's delight, traveler's pain.
The dewy creepers lying low,
the sublimity of the rainbow.

The vastness of the ubiquitous sky,
punctuated by birds on the fly.
The blossom of the flowers
and their alluring powers.
Pigeons' courting games on the perch.
Silence of the mosque, grandeur of the church.

In the patter of the rain,
in the sigh of the breeze,
in the hiss of the stream,
in the rustle of the leaves,
in the barking of the dog,
in the crowing of the cock,
in the carefree songs of the cuckoo,
God sang for me too.

But in the mortal quest of my name
and the unquenched thirst for pelf and fame
In my daily rush and hurry
and the unseen baggage of worry,
these simple gifts of nature I miss
and deprive myself of the 'so-near-yet-so-far' bliss.