Teesta Review: A Journal of Poetry, Volume 3, Number 2. November 2020. ISSN: 2581-7094
A Morning
Wrangle
--- Kumar Yashwant
A pleasant
view of garden
Full of
Calendula and Roses
Attracted a
young bee
Which
buzzing sound delighted me.
The sound
was ear soothing
The loud
sound was appeasing;
But unlike
my ears, my eyes sensed something
Unpleasant
with which the bee was dealing.
Hence, I
stepped towards little bee
With a
mind-set of helping
And asked
him about the pain
From which
he is suffering.
The little
creature read in my eyes,
I was there
to help him,
And hence,
he fumbled on my shoulder
To cry out
his painful sufferings.
His
sufferings are familiar to men
But yet not
to them,
Hence, he
cried his pains loud
Like a
parliament inside house.
He narrated
his pains,
Filled with
jealousy and rage
Among his
two friends
Calendula and
Roses.
The soul of
winter garden,
Calendula
and Roses,
Involved
themselves
Into a
morning wrangle
That seemed
to be endless
Like Bay of
Bengal.
The endless
wrangle
Not letting
me to sieve,
Cried the
helpless bee.
Why it
started? How it started?
I enquired
the innocent bee
In reply of
which
He narrated
the tale being supreme.
The tale of
being supreme,
Started with
a voiceless scream,
Come here! I
have more,
For you, Mr.
Bee.
The helpless
bee
Was only
desired to drive,
The nectar
from the filaments
Of Calendula
and Roses.
But the
useless wrangle between them
Had
converted the beautiful garden
Into a House
of Parliament
Where the discussion
is always endless.
A morning
wrangle
Between
Calendula and Roses
Compelled
the helpless bee
To consider
one as supreme
With his Act
of First Sieve,
And help
self-centred souls of the garden
To bring an
end to their wrangle
With a pointless
conclusion.