The Green Buffaloes

We have a hundred meter wide grassy park,
just beneath the balcony of our apartment.
And everything there is green.

The grass is green.
The beautiful wild flowers that bloom there
are green.
The little butterflies that flutter over them
are green.
The thin egrets that hop on their thin legs
are green,
The plastic wrappers and other garbage that lie around,
are green.
They are all green.

Today, there are seven buffaloes,
grazing in the park.
Their ears are twitching ocasionally,
their skins are rippling ocassionally,
and their brushy tails are lashing on their backs
ocasionally, to send the settling flies
again on their wings.

They are all green.
Their ears are green,
Their skins are green,
Their tails, their lovely tails
are green.

They are all green
as they busily chew their cud
amongst the treasure of rich foliage
That has, with comming of the monsoons
replaced the thorns of the scotching summer.

But,
At a little distance,
there is one buffalo
which walks on the mettaled Highway
Face down,
with fire in its bowels
and not green.

Why does it not follow the norm?
Why does it not follow the norm to graze in the park,
where food is so bounty.
Why does it not follow the norm,
to graze with
the seven green buffaloes?
Perhaps it is foolish,
as foolish as foolish can be.

Or may be,
Its path it has chosen,
The path less treaded on.
Its destiny it has chosen for itself,
And it is perhaps its choice that decides
what it ought to be,
a buffalo like it was born a buffalo.
Hungry, But not green.

As the clouds darkens the blue horizon again,
and the rain begins to glisten
on the broad leaves of the peepal tree.
The seven green buffaloes,
as green as the gentle grass,
graze away in peace
on the green, wide, grassy park
Underneath.

Unknown,
Undiscovered..