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The Sparrow

Adnan Shafi is a poet, writer, columnist,short story writer, and reviewer

The sparrow

A pageant of leaflets swinging not over the neck of the woods, spawning the quintessence of runes lying sapless and rarin' to go to mold the ample fervor and sense of poesy ;


Exact in, squats the little bird, with pennage burnt sienna, swivels over the rhythms to hymn syrupy palliative glories when nearing day tempts to break over against the dingy mien of vim;


In the hirsute veld, lopes the comely and sensational sparrow, sprightly, unflappable; who with humbly folded wings lunges in the shafts of the sun himself and hums upon the days of yore, together with conferring equanimity to our soul, the soul not of frolic, but of contriteness, our hearts wilted and the agony veiled there ;


In the saccharine, unruffled afternoon of spring, while the heavenly sun wanes in the clear west and plops all woes on the realm, hence, I approach and relax on the tiny ridges where I can heed the chirpy song -sparrow sing, His approach to the planet when he warbles in the fervent tonality, and the brunt of schism in us gets shrunken ;


Life's dolor seeming unheard of, and in a word, when death seems near, I, again approach and listen to his intrepid chorus of glees that always be heeded by the tribe rosy ;


Occasionally, the little bird beside my morose window flutters his wings down, in the same juncture, chitters his fragile vein, anon, with a gentle mood, pats upon my window pane, cheeps, and proms, cheeps, and proms, to whoop my heed to his tune;

yet, I don't turn back on, I pay the attention, heed his regard, till he tires out and flies away, however, his tone sends an emboldened word to rampage my dingy wramps of being, bestows a reverie to my riven heart.

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When the rumble is roaring, and you can behold his engaging feathers hover in the zephyr, and whirlwind, Strong kisses of wind to the feathers of the little bird, and his droning eternally sojourns in the paths he flies in;


As he puffs out into the chill, reckons the lilies of the lawn, their fulgent curling petals rise prudence or desire, vigor or passion ;


For a while, listen to sparrows' caterwauling in the wildernesses then flaring into ballad; the little bird has his audience, his applaudable band, sparrows appear for in their thousands, they arrive in flock weaving and plunging in vast discolored skies, and pursue the fabulous winks everywhere ;


When I encounter the sparrow regaling outside, my downbeat window filled with his symphony that paints it altogether, the same soothing songs, my soul emulates the way he vocalizes,
With my throat, I strive to emulate, however, I can never produce the voice resembling. A tune in the room stays for long but dominates my heart forever.

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