If rocks had not grown
In places trees vacated
We birds would have been
In sad plight.
Our species may suffer extinction
Or become refugees.
Fledgeling with wind knowledge
Fluttered its wings in the sky
Sitting in a life-sized statue
In the centre of city.
Gazed at effigies’ busts
Erected in streets in junctions
Talked to the mother bird.
The bird mother
Spread its wings,
Strutted to remain
In the same place
Replied
My child these are not
Rocks grown
These are hero images
Birthed in bronze, stone and iron
Spending lakhs or crores in money.
We are sitting on top of them
That is why child
We feel they are weak.
For people,
They are very strong iron men.
These are people
Who believe
A wave of their hands
Will stretch to stars.
In bearing down with their feet
Earth will stop its rotation.
The sun will not rise or set
If they stare at it.
There are stories sung
For them.
They presume,
The beats of the world to
Lie in their finger tips.
Are they iron men?
Looking at the
Stumbling creeping
Perspiring and panting
Men in hot sun.
The baby bird looked surprised.
Opening the repository of stories
The bird began assiduously.
These are not of the stuff
Rushing vulnerably beneath us.
Born from human seed
They are supreme men.
Do you know
How many lives are
Lost in smelting.
How much blood spilled
How many dreams destroyed
How many rapes justified
Rapes seen
as way to success
Celebrated as tribute to winners
Gives a human
The visage of an iron man
Now standing like rocks
In this street impassively.
They are the human images
Who stood smiling
Over dead bodies
With no hesitation.
They have drawn
From decaying dead
Feed for growth
To become broader and bigger names.
They may even be revered as gods
By some worshippers among men
In the coming ages.
The baby bird stood aghast
Thinking of the cluster around
Birds drooping in the
Scorching sun
Falling from electric lines
The lament of the flock
Rippled in the memories of the fledgeling.
After a moment of silence
The mother bird flapped its wings
And continued with ease.
But we birds realise
The actual worth
Of iron men.
By defecating in the heads
Of those who became sculptures
We are asking the iron men
The payment for bygone eras.
We will keep on asking it.
