Out from my window, I saw a bug, Twisting and buzzing, playing with luck. It danced around a pigeon with carefree delight- Peace for us; for him, the end in sight. What are we to call it the bird of peace, While it feasts on bugs with perfect bliss? We even trusted it to carry our letters, Yet still call it a messenger of peace. Even roses we pick for the ones we adore, Petals so bright, yet stems bear the thorns. Crimson to pure white, their blossoms unfold— From first love to farewell, their stories are told. We humans are so pathetic, more than we'll ever know; We love the butterfly, yet the moth is disowned. Butterflies bring beauty, but moths clothe us whole; They die by our own hands to weave the fabric's roll. Cats care for none but their own mistress; They chase the mouse, yet are beaten for the mess. They meow through the pain from the blows they get, Yet still lick our feet, as if they know not hate. Birds beautify nature with their own sweet voice, Soothing the forests, as if by nature's choice. Yet some dismantle what they never built, Crushing every tree until all nature wilts. We humans are so self-centred, claiming others' homes; In the name of development, we shatter all their domes. Then we call them sanctuaries, or whatever we please, After driving them from the homes they lived in with ease. Why do we praise the flower, yet forget the plant? We see a deer as a deer, yet the rhino's horn as a magic wand. So quick are we to thank God for the rain and sun, Yet blame nature for the damage that nature has done. Birds never asked to be called the birds of peace; Nor did flower or moth choose what they should be. We divided them, then left them alone, Writing stories that claimed we saved what was once their home.