When summer comes, we hear the hums of Bhisma Lochan Sharma.
You catch his strain on hill and plain from Delhi down to Burma.
He sings as though he's staked his life, he sings as though he's hell-bent :
The people, dazed, retire amazed although they know it's well-meant.
They're trampled in the panic rout or languish pale and sickly,
And plead, 'My friend, we're near our end, Oh stop your singing quickly!'
The bullock-carts are overturned, and horses line the roadside ;
But Bhisma Lochan, unconcerned, goes booming out his broadside.
The wretched brutes resent the blare the hour they hear it sounded,
They whine and stare with feet in air or wander quite confounded.
The fishes dive below the lake in frantic search for silence,
The very trees collapse and shake - you hear the crash a mile hence -
And in the sky a feathered fry turn turtle while they're winging.
Again we cry, 'We're going to die, oh won't you stop your singing?'
But Bhisma's soared beyond our reach, howe'er we plead and grumble :
The welkin weeps to hear his screech, and mighty mansions tumble.
But now there comes a billy goat, a most sagacious fellow,
He downs his horns and charges straight, with bellow answ'ring bellow.
The strains of song are tossed and whirled by blast of brutal violence,
And Bhisma Lochan grants the world the golden gift of silence.

Sukumar Ray