Where do old birds go to die?

Krishna Hari is a class 12 student. She writes stunning poems which carry evocative images and provoking metaphors. As her English teacher, I am proud to feature one of her poems in this space. 

Krishna Hari

The old birds in my yard⠀

Fly away to distant lands⠀

For deceptive summer eves have come⠀

Yet again with their wild rains⠀

And malicious clouds.⠀

⠀

I sit on my balcony cross-legged⠀

Sipping warm whiskey⠀

Watching the sunset paint ⠀

The northern skies sepia.⠀

⠀

I hear the rustling leaves of the devil's trees⠀

Within the premises of that old temple by the lake⠀

Where women used to worship serpents and fairies once⠀

Collapsed into a rubble of stones with time.⠀

⠀

Eerie questions suck on the abysses

Under my skin like leeches⠀

And I feel as if I'm⠀

On the edge of an apocalypse.⠀

⠀

I ask, "Who makes leaves fall in autumn"?⠀

"Why were thorny roses prettier than tranquil jasmines"?⠀

"Where do old birds go to die ?⠀

Do they ever cry for their wrinkled destinies ?⠀

Do their tears fall off from their homes in the highs of heavenly trees ?⠀

Do their nestlings weep at their demises?"⠀

⠀

I heave a deep sigh into the cold air⠀

Close my eyes and see old birds going to die.⠀

And I tell myself⠀

'Maybe I'll mourn their death at my own grave.'