This  morning a cuckoo shouts
Instead of the customary cock.
Dawn's voice  rises from a tree
Not  a throat on a broken wall.

Its shout goes, silence after silence,
To an imaginary rain in the hills.

The sun rises quietly against birds.
The birds shout to a reddening sky.
A temple shouts a dead voice to sky.
We wonder why in such a silence
They all have to shout to be heard.