The peacock's feathers make a spread
Of deepest blue with satin thread
Of gold that's spun acreoss a fan
And green that shimmers in the sun
He knows he is the envy of
The sparrow and the turtle dove
So why at night can he be heard
To weep just like a wounded bird?
Tears fall from his bright plumage
As in the corner of his cage
He cries because, unlike the sparrow
His whole world is high and narrow
So don't be taken in by places
With golden rods and measured spaces
For they can be as hard and cold
As any prison made of stone
