A bird without wings

The wing­less bird
is often at my win­dow
it squirms at plum­met
of the rain or blindly blinks at moon
it does not chirp and ask me no per­mis­sion
to peck on win­dow of my room at mid­night or at noon

It has no shadow and its feathers’re miss­ing
the gloss of dew and star­dust of the night
It turns to Raven –when I read it lis­tens
it turns to glit­tered quill in moon­light when I write

But inter­minably it comes when day’s in blos­som
it’s miss­ing wings are piti­ful regret
Pre­sid­ing over Salvador’s ”supreme ambi­tion”
it squints at books I start to write but soon forget…

”Intel­li­gence with­out ambi­tion is a bird with­out wings”
Sal­vador Dali