Shingba

 

So many colours of rhododendrons

In pastel pink, and violet, red

As if, rainbow trails from heaven above,

Have all, in Shingba bled

 

Yet, you – who seeks colours

Of the firetail’s fiery hues

You leave all these petals alone –

And instead, what is it you choose?

 

The grey, melancholic feathers

Of a bush-warbler that shies,

I sometimes wonder, what is your truth

That hides between your lies

 

The blossoms, are easy, you say

They shine even for eyes all blind

But sometimes, don’t you wonder

What is it you’ve left behind?

 

That warbler flits in that unseen,

Beneath the most-stunning of bloom,

Choosing then not out of choice,

Feathers of grey and dimming gloom

 

And yet it flits away alone

Ignoring colours that burst and pour -

The pollen grains are sweet enough,

The warbler needs not any more

A sleet descends - we are all wet

But you look out for the warbler again,

No sun, no rainbow, those can wait

It is only time for indigo rain…

 

22^nd June, 2025