I found a bird once.
It was hurt and trembling,
hit by a wall.
It did not stop flying,
but it writhed in pain.
Whenever it did,
I held it close to my heart.
Like a mother would,
drop by drop,
I poured nectar
down its throat,
giving it strength to take off.
And it soared high in the sky.
It did not forget me.
It kept coming back.
I showered it with love
and more nectar.
But it fell,
because it had chosen
to fly into a wall again.
I offered it nectar.
It took small sips.
I gave it all the love I could,
emptied my pot.
It still lay
by the wall—
not really hurt anymore,
but caressing its wounds.
I waited.
And waited.
And still waited.
I held the bird close,
offered it everything I had.
As I walked away to fetch more,
I stopped in my tracks.
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
who was this bleeding bird standing tall,
with an empty pot in hand
and tears in its eyes,
crying over a bird
that kept choosing the wall?
Darpan 