When shall my growth be announced to the world?
How long do I need to stand on the stage?
If I should wait forever…
Will my turn to speak with the microphone come?
I want to feel tired…
I want to shut my eyes…
I am getting impatient, anxious!
Will it be till the crowd disperse before it shall be my turn?
To whose listening shall I render the glories in my song?
I can see no birds
Perhaps the winds shall carry the sad tunes of my singing
Perhaps it will understand my sorrows when it deliver my tale to the forest
Oh how the robins, the nightingales, even the cuckoos and others shall lament…
Mine, the last song
No one shall wait to clap a hand
No dancing will be made
Even my long drawn face, soaked in wretched tears will mourn this day I laboured for
Oh, how lonely it is, at the top!
When I climbed down the rostrum
Another, whom I could not see because I was full of my importance
Shall mount up and take the microphone
When he sings, he will hear the echoes made by the silence!!
So has it always been
At the peak of glory
The eyes sees nothing
The ears hear nothing
The mouth sings hollow songs
…always the same story…

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