The Dance of the Drongo

 

 

I remember a bird –

A dark, black bird

From younger days

Long time ago:

Unassuming,

Uncoloured,

Unacclaimed it was

Yet somehow, it had a glow

 

It was a drongo

An urban soul,

A fork-tailed one

Simple, plain.

With neither splendour

Of a racquet-tail

Nor plumes of paradise

Or spangled stain

 

But unlike all birds

It had a mirth

A zest, a leap

In seasons all

A force, a zeal

Fluttering on and on,

Unbound soul

Though size of small

 

You had to stare

For a minutes few

At the dances

Of the drongo bird,

And you too would wake

You would arise;

To stay depressed -

That would be hard

 

How many times,

I recollect now

Had I not sought

The drongo on a rainy day

To break my walls

Of melancholy

From feathers dark

Always at play

 

Sometimes, I wished

I had found the font

That fed the fervour

Of those wings

But it was a secret

Not for us

Parting wealthy knaves

From penniless kings

 

No drongos flit

In this ruddy land,

Their wings never reached

This far-off place

But often I dream

On days as these

Their silhouettes in flight

On the golden rays

 

How would they dance

In lands like these?

How would they dart

How would they wing?

Would they too change

In this no-man’s land?

Or could they keep

That zest, that zing?

 

Deep within,

I know it all,

There are those things

That never amends,

And why should they?

As the rising sun, the falling rain

The drongo’s dance

That never ends…

 

16^th August, 2025