avicide...

.

.

when your nightingale songs
are rewarded with a golden cage
and
your peacock paintings
deprive you of your private sky
;
when you cannot find any fish
to feed your seagull soul
but
folly, fake, and foul galore
;
when there's no mountain or any haven
for your seclusion eagle
and
your cherished bonds
unwillingly kill your migratory skylarks
;
when you cannot rejoice in
the hustle and bustle of everyday sparrows
and
fear the hungry hunters of graceful patridges
as much as
the caring pamperers of homely chickens
;
when flattering mouths look down upon
your fluttering nightly doves
and
cumulative honking cars
mute your swan solos
;
when nobody believes in
phoenixes and simorghs anymore
and
you find nowhere to hide and hatch
the eggs of your truth
except in your eyes
;
be
the adapting
omnivorous
monotonous
inconspicuous
black-eyed
crow

.

.