Even today when I open the books,
Scenes from my past run in front of my eyes,
Scenes from my school classes,
Where sitting at the back bench,
I'd see a bird hopping
And flying.
Imagination or real?
I wouldn't ask,
I wouldn't answer.
My eyes would follow
Wherever the bird would go.
Yes, my eyes would follow
When it'd hop on the fan,
When it would fly in and out of windows,
When it would sit on teachers shoulder,
Fellow-mate's notebook,
Neighbor's bag,
My hand, where it would finally bite,
Only to make me realize,
That it wasn't the bird,
But the teacher who had hit me,
On my hand with a ruler.
As I stood up,
The bird again hopped on to the teacher's shoulder,
As she walked towards the blackboard,
Only to teach me those phenomenons,
Understanding of which I couldn't afford.
-