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.