The Songbird
The moon was roaring at the world like a lone wolf in the night. One could almost hear it dominate over the unrelenting flames of darkness. Its teeth were gnawing at the neck of the unknown and its claws clinging onto its unprotected chest, like a forlorn lover. The midnight blues were writing songs of praise. I was listening on intently.
I hopped towards the otherwise inept river, which tonight ably enunciated my hues. But the river was in no mood to pen a poem about me. It was radiating a glaringly silver light of uncountable opulent diamonds on the partially dilapidated gazebo, which was behind me.
The gazebo, which on other nights looked like a survivor of cataclysms, now looked absolutely magical. It looked like someone’s personal cocoon. It was like a soothing, honeyed voice that entered only your ears and no one else’s.
I looked like a speck of dust — frivolous and hallucinatory. I sneezed, more as a reaction to the inner repulsion. I thought singing might help in waging the war. A throaty scream or two later, the wind ruptured its veins on my face. Filled with venomous rage, I barked as much as a bird can.
I stopped when I saw an old man walking towards the gazebo. This had never happened before. No one ever entered the garden, let alone the gazebo. I had always been the voice of the garden for people living both far and near.
I flew swiftly to confront the man. I attacked all over his face. The grass turned red when I poked my beak in his eyes the hardest. After all, he only needed his ears to hear the true beauty of this garden.
