The King of Seasons -Eashin Ibn Firoj

​By the path where Palash blooms in red,
The Shimul laughs on branches overhead.
The spring breeze swirls in a drunken high,
As crimson dust paints the evening sky.

​The time has come for withered leaves to part,
As budding greens sing to the weary heart.
From hidden shades,the Cuckoo’s melody rings,
A soothing balm that only springtime brings.

​The Indian Cuckoo calls from woods afar,
The scent of flowers spreads like a rising star.
Spring has arrived at the doorstep today,
To wake the soul in its own golden way.