A dead mouse lies,
Forlornly the April air sighs,
Water in a nearby puddle dries,
A dung-beetle hurriedly tries
to roll its trophy; take home as pies.
There on the infinite, blue calm of the skies,
an eagle air-dives for ecstatic highs,
With death, decay and destruction,
its hunter instinct vies,
From the faded, sunburnt petals of that flower,
the short spring says byes.
Lower and lower the hunter comes,
It eyes the humble measles
a former life has still to offer,
Driven by the expert dynamics of its airy skill,
It goes for the carcass’ kill,
Triumphantly it ascends,
The trophy held in its talons,
A sparrow chirps as if crying of murder,
Another bird sounds applauding,
A curious mix:
The nature in qualityless, impersonal fluid.
Unseen a chapter is closed,
The slumberous panorama, meanwhile, dozed.
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