The Indian Peacock

By Shamik Banerjee

The thankful May and its Monsoon

So faithfully implore you:

"Your dance for us- the fairsome boon;

Oh! how we all adore you!"

When slowly at the time of morn,

Raindrops come from above;

Your pretty fan-like tail is born,

That all bystanders love!

O' then you shimmy, 'mid the sprinklin'

Show your pennage's blee,

The villagers, with their eyes twinklin'

This frabjous event see!

The archy blue crest you display,

Strut eyespots of your train;

The peahens' harem notice pay,

And your courtship attain!

When in the lek your dance is done,

You leave a handful plumes;

And we amound them one by one,

To betrim our rooms.

A poet turns your glimpse to word

After Monsoon is gone

Writes: 'Queen of Winne, My Nation's Bird,

Your beauty belives on'.