A cluster of noisy birds had their nests in my neighborhood,
Creating sound and complaining to one another, in a lyre fascinating mood,
Living in their nests, ex-halted and accumulated from dusts and disuse,
Feather and feather all around, growing like a feeble fuse,
In a bad conviction, not worthy was their dilapidated condition,
In a pathetic condition, their beautiful edifice was became a dirt creation,
With a coin of compassion in a merciful winter, finally ready for renounce reformation,
And they stringed some ventures of repair and transformation,
Yearning was passionate, full of foggy faith, but failed,
Because, in the mean time, their stupidity prevailed,
In the process of transformation, to get ephemeral joy and strive,
They tossed their nests, in a possession to thrive,
Despite their deep exertion of working in a profound,
One morning, they toppled their beautiful edifice in the ground, left me broken hearted,
For reasons, i have sympathy in my discerning heart with deep disgrace that halted,
Why did they pulled the whole edifice in the ground?
Why did they not cleared restored and get their home self-absorbed?
Why did they not seek for permanence, and establishment?
What was reform, really meant to them?
Was that the desolating, separating from the old soiled frame?
It is still haunting and surprising me silently with fussiness,
Does reformation transit to renovation to partial perfection or demolishing to freshness?