Wings Where They Belong

 


It is easy to find seagulls living in isolation from the company of crows.
Who finds seagulls befriend a crow, frantic at the charity they finally get,
where ultimately the latter flies ways.

The sea is too much a splendor,
broken rooftops reveal greater treasures
save for one who has eyes but no sight.

Paths where clasped hands walk,
from there shoo robins.
One hand with grains pulls a dozen sparrows.

Why cuckoos conceal themselves and sing on branches, I finally know.
It fears not the hawk,
the hawk is much too merciful on the tune.

Why rant of flying when you fly not, you flee?
Jibrael shakes his head at the words you speak.
In reality, these are wings where they belong.

Turn to the pigeons now, revolving round the Ka’aba,
ecstatic like the planets.
Dying echoes of Bilali azaan in their heads.

Painted walls bring a headache, their stench.
It is humbler to perch upon raw brick’s wall.
Or better yet, no walls.


 

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