the peacock starts to strut,
it begins to dance the dance.
its colorful feathers open like a fan,
count the eyes and prance.
iridescent plumage so perfectly charming,
who wants to be the grey peahen so boring?
but, then one thinks of men in grey suits,
the point could really be moot.
two guarding the gates of paradise,
like the phoenix of rebirth and betroth.
i swear by the peacock in a sacred oath.
twisted words with code impossible to bowdlerize...
yazidi gives the will to control all emotions,
sworn to the order of the peacock angel.
the poets’ words are forever devotions,
resurrected souls carried to immortality.
the peafowl speaks of royalty,
a fan of feathers turning metal into gold;
the exotic white peacock struts and screams with loyalty,
for the king and queen eat only blue peacock soup, i am told.
