Peacock

Peacock

As it rustles its pretty feathers,

During the mid of May.

It flees from hunters,

It once was very gay.

Its tri-colored body

Could never be a prey.

As it took flight,

An orange shrub was spotted.

There was hope, just a ray

As it hid.

Footsteps grew louder,

Death came closer

It turned to take off.

Alas, its feathers were stuck,

He heard the hunter’s laugh

At last within his grasp

The peacock turned to its beauty

It paid the ultimate price for it!                                                                                 Aamina Wahid                                                                                                                                                              8D