The war hawk is loose upon the land
With bloodied talons and bloodied beak
Exulting in its power of life and death
Over all that grovels and scuttles
Contemptibly, and tries to hide
Under rock and shrub, in holes and tunnels from
Its Godlike, all-seeing eye.
The war hawk, full of grace, power, beauty
Superior, implicitly, to such scuttling things.
The war hawk, flying high and close to Heaven,
Divinely ordained, surely, to rule over
Things that crawl on the ground, and shiver, fearfully
Waiting for the deadly shadow to pass them by.
But even the war hawk must come to ground someday.
Even it must perch on the twig and roost on the tree,
Like the crawling, terrified, scuttling things.
The rock and the stone, the hole and the tree
It must share then, with the scuttling prey
And like them, the war hawk must die.
Copyright B Purkayastha 2012