Grundit Craw

My wing clipped mind hops and stutters,

Garring me glaikit and fidgety,

As a grundit craw.

It langs tae soar,

The benmaist heichts o the lift,

No tae look doon,

On what is a’ready kent,

But tae become the air,

And mingle wi a the stuff o creation:

Tae become what it is.

Yet, here I sit, wingless,

And nae amoont o flappin,

Will mak it itherwise.

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