Shameela Yoosuf Ali
My little singing bird
Wherever I go I carry it within me
Or rather it sits fluttering in my being
As I sit down at my desk to dream away
It takes me above the valleys of Anatolia
Orange groves Strawberry fields and vineyards
Sometimes it brings me a little feather, A chestnut,
or a river with songs of the olden days
Other times it fetches me
timeless scent of blooming Damask roses
fragrance of jasmine white dreams in a creeper
smell of raindrops dancing in the naked earth…
where is your singing bird I asked everyone
They cackled and looked at me with concern
In a ring of alarm flew away to join the rat-race
In the cherry colour horizon of a faraway desert
Little singing birds unfed and famished to death
