A Bird

A lovely bird for which I don't have locks, Who visits my room at zero hours and likes it, Lays eggs on my writing table and that I like. Sees something and goes back with shocks, My pen writes something and she dislikes it, I am stranded between her like and dislike. Can see, but can't speak and praise her beauty, She has blocked my lips but eyes she has left open, My naughty pen sends a flying kiss to her colors. As long as I listen to her songs she's sweet and pretty, Shall remain thankful for the pink print on my pen, With sweet words it acknowledges her colors her odors. (A lovely poetess, who sometimes reads me, likes and writes comments on my poems has blocked me to write a comment on hers and has also blocked me to send a thanksgiving message to her. I don't know why?)