Someday, the flowers will bloom again;
Someday, the air will fill with the chores of schools and daily life,
Someday, the road will be reconstructed and will hear the cacophony.
Someday, there’ll be no gore; there’ll be the pleasure of living–beautiful.
I dream, someday, the muscles that’ve shaken our very root–
Of belief in peace and harmony will crumble under the sunlight–a new found one.
I dream, someday, the illiteracy in thoughts and the abandon of the belief in own instinct-
Will find itself as an endangered first, and, then a collectible trashed knowledge–
Of no use like an old currency note or the dress that’ve outgrown the self long ago…
Yes, someday, it might happen–as the friend of poet says to him, —
After shooting a captured cuckoo which was disturbing his mind, —
As he had put the words–while they were plotting for killing an Elder.
The poet leave a sigh–a deep one it was–and rephrase his unspoken last line–
Someday not today the cuckoo will bring the spring again; the flowers will bloom again.