The Morning Song
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Birthday of the pack's father,
Appropriately, the first one of the year,
Providing warmth in the frigid month,
That sunny smile and the morning song.
What is the morning song? You ask.
The King, sitting in his rickety bamboo chair,
Winged visitors fresh from the morning dew,
Frolicking in the gigantic trees, green lawns freshly mowed,
Announced by the nascent rays and the orange glow.
The stage is set, for the morning song.
You may come in now,
You will be welcomed to sit,
Smiles, hearts, the tea kettle will open up,
Pouring out love, and nothing but love.
You will have a smile on your face,
But you will not know,
You will meditate with an open mind,
You will dream, with open eyes.
The lore of the past will be plenty,
The pit of despair, empty,
Surrounded by love and a gentle hymn
Sipping tea, full of joy till the brim.
Azure skies, annuals abundant, tall trees,
Aamla, Banana, Jamun, Mango, Mulberry, swaying in glee.
More tea will come, more wisdom will follow,
A distraction here, a yelp there,
But you will return to the morning song,
Will roll in joy, into noon from morn.
The end will never show up,
The morning song is not bound,
The birthday boy will judiciously decide,
When to disperse for your mundane fights.
And so has he spun a world,
In which we all roll in joy,
And wish a very Happy Birthday,
To the King, the birthday boy.
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