A look up at the sky

A look up, at the sky.
My good Samaritan neighbor gives me a lift,
the smooth wheels of his Sumo drive,
yet hit upon the mushroom like spread
jasmine that has encroached on the road,
I know not whose fault it is, the gardener
who took pity on it not to prune,
or the mechanical wheels that crush upon
half withered, smiling flowers,
who cares for these voiceless?
Through the same window panes,
I look up at the minaret, a bird
as if releasing into freedom from
its cove of self inflicted stay,
surfing the vast blue, merry, merry,
I have heard a bird hitting a plane,
who can hit the bird unless a
merciless bullet aimed at something else?
My paining neck slows downward,
Who cares these voiceless?