The Bowerbird

They say he doesn’t think when building his home, yet more heed is seen than those that war and conclude they know.

His passion for art sees no end. Pure in desire, thought and care, with no deceit for those that look deep. With no purpose other than to please the eye that looks and sees, the truth in him to decide.

While the Peacock flaunts an inherited tale, shimmering his train to show he has, natures endowment he knows not, his beauty is born, neither built nor earned.

The Weaver’s nest is a joy to see. Knitted in strands of grass and twigs, were thought and work cannot be denied. It’s purpose only a snake would know, for beauty is not what it’s fashioned for.

While the Robin sings such joyful trills. His head held high boasting with ego and pride, for those that dare not pry or squeal on his past and those that know not his words. They are far from a cry to those brothers he slay to grab his prize.

Those that live in paradise have it all. The looks, the dance and the chime. And parade their colourful quills. All of this to lure them in. Little do they know that beauty is held within.

The Bower has non to boast. No looks, no dance, no chime to show. He does not kill for this besides. For his talent is in his work of art that has no purpose other than to please.

His passion for art sees no end. Pure in desire, thought and care, with no deceit for those that look deep. With no purpose other than to please, the eye that looks and sees, the truth in him to decide.

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