Sparkles

A thousand sparkling eyes blink at me through the wet beads,

Glowing bright yellow as they close in,

Swooping down the wide grey path in ecstatic fury

And then they fade as they pass,

Forgetting me in their rush

And frantically hurrying on in search of some foreign goal,

Private to me, but all of them share the same one

Because they all pass me and carry on with no thought for what they’ve left behind

Though they probably surge along those same paths the next day

And follow the same way as me.

But still I do not understand them

And their silent eyes flicker to tease me as they glisten

In waves of light, and in dark blankets, too.

The Peacocks are in power.

Patriotism pales to a pall
and the Peacocks are in power,
who knows what happens when the Peacocks go?
The Peacocks are in power.

Power, power, what is power?
Where does power come from?
Is power down beneath the sea?
Is power in the yellow sun?

The pilgrims travel off the earth
and yearn for power's might,
but the Peacocks arrived before them all;
the Peacocks left last night.

Power, power, what is power?
Where does power come from?
Is power in the ancient days?
Is power yet in days to come?

The Peacocks preen themselves some more,
their feathers gleaming in the sun,
and glossy patterns wriggle around
running, screaming, from the gun.

Power, power, what is power?
Where does power come from?
It's in the gun, it's in the gun,
that's where power comes from.
Peacocks scatter, Peacocks run,
Now you know where power comes from.