Colored like clay they lack the charms

Of Parakeets and lyre birds.

They have no music, one might say.

Yet, happy they are beyond words.

 

In scorching heat and freezing cold

I hear them chirp in merry way.

When morning breaks I hear them sing.

At eventide I hear them pray.

 

Their petty fights end in trice.

Like little kids they forget fray.

Share the bits that others discard

And live together all the way.

 

They are everywhere. This I know.

In my Indian hometown they live.

In Arabian deserts they live

And so do they, in pristine snow.

 

Yet, their very being we ignore;

Hardly bemoan when they wither.

Gazes evade a dead sparrow.

Disgust is left. Who does sorrow?.

 

While some prosper there is a swarm

Who suffers uncomplainingly-

The sparrows made in human form.

Don’t we hurt them unwittingly?

 

Forget it not, there is one God

Who loves them and their Golden hearts.

Mortals, here the road does not end.

It’s time, we loved the sparrows’ hearts.