The parrot rests upon barbed wire.
Feathers like sunlight breaking through jungle leaves,
claws curled around steel meant to wound.

Paradise is not where he sits,
but how he sits.

Barbed wire cuts only the hand that grasps,
not the bird that accepts.
To call the wire ugly is to name the sky beautiful.
Without the wire,
his brilliance might vanish into the endless green.

Do you see prison,
or perch?
Do you see suffering,
or song?

The world does not divide itself.
We divide it,
with names and judgments.

The parrot knows nothing of beauty or ugliness,
he simply rests,
his wings gathering the sun,
his shadow falling across the barbs.

Look again:
the wire glitters as much as his feathers.
The steel is no less holy than the palms.

Paradise is the eye that sees both,
and calls neither less.