Perches on my window
My mustached friend bulbul,
Finds me shaving,
A stray bird and I call it a miracle,
It pecks from my hand tidbits of food
Not scared at all
Looks deep into my eyes
And plants there a sunrise,
Asks the bird, ‘why do you shave,
And not save your beard
For the time it would fit your sunken face
When it would tell
There aren’t any of us around,
No miracle of waking up each morn
With our sounds’!

It knows miracles are drying up.