TO ROOTS

Scattered like withered and fallen leaves of winter..
My destiny must be to stray,
shaken by wind's cold hands
and thrown afar
and to rot and merge and be nonexistent..
No need to struggle with fate,I know,
but some foolish pride inside
yearns for a return to the Tree,
be in union with all of me
brought back to the stump,
and be complete.
Instead I'm seen by some busy morning broom
or some flashing lens
or shamefully by some philosopher's eyes..
Only the wind hears my wish
and with laughter carries me to roots spread everywhere...

HAWK

A hawk is a hawk,
though its wings are cut.
You cannot ask it to adjust,to tune in,
survive and excel
living the life of a subterranean.
It has been born high;
It perches on the topmost branch.
The wind is its minister,the sky its empire.
It will remain the same bird,
even when it crouches in the wastelands;
The same,
when it fails amongst the four-leggers;
It will still dream of the sky,the wind
and the pleasure of being what it is.
Each day and night,the prayer will be
not to exist lying low,
but to cease to be,
if it cannot live as a hawk.
A hawk will always be a hawk.