A man was sitting
On a donkey's back,
That wasn't moving
As it was slack.

He tied a carrot
To the tip of a stick,
And held it in front
For it to pick.

While it moved forward,
The carrot also moved,
As he was at its back,
Holding the carrot stick.

Its mouth wide open
Chased the carrot fast,
Till it went on and on
To the destination last.

To every man at work,
Shirking at his desk,
Will the carrot and stick,
Of late, play the trick?

(A true incident in my life)

To a man, the ‘death’ of a bird,
There’s no meaning in that word,
For birds do live or die,
Matters little to the human eye.

To me, the ‘death’ of a bird,
Ushers a touch of gloom in that word,
A depressed sense of sorrow,
Deep in my heart o’er a sparrow.

Of all the places around,
How the little sparrow found,
A roof-hole, for its groom,
In my busy office room?

They both settled inside,
The tiny nest of their pride,
Flirting and searching,
Caressing and perching.

Their shrill and sharp noise,
As they flew across,
Tilted my mental peace,
Keeping me ill at ease.

My superior complex forbade,
Their trespass o'er my head,
Out of they flew, at my chase,
But back they came, in retrace.

Their unbreakable obstinacy,
Won o'er my supremacy,
As I got reconciled to them,
With the passage of time.

A straw or a feather drop,
From their tiny nest atop,
I threw out from my table,
Thereafter without a grumble.

What a shocking fatal day,
The ever remaining sparrow gay,
Fell dead, belly ripped open
By the speeding ceiling fan.

There remains still the tiny hole,
And my past memories of the bird’s role.
Lo! The bleeding lifeless sparrow’s body,
Lies in state before me even this day.