Your vibrant blue feathers, that glisten like pearls.

Less and less feathers in the jungle.

Less and less of you every year.

How could something so precious be so vulnerable, decreasing, on the brink of extinction?

The effortless flight that comes upon sunrise and the gorgeous wings that carry you in ways I cannot.

Oh hyacinth macaw, you even got a movie. Two, actually, living happily in Rio.

Singing on train tops and dancing in festivals.

Befriending people yet trying to survive from people.

Are you really happy?

Happy hiding from marksmen?

Happy flying away from bullet shots?

Happy avoiding the traps?

You sing every morning, to countless life forms who have the pleasure of hearing it every single day.

What will they do when they don’t hear it anymore?

How can you sing so beautifully when at any given moment it can just end?

Greed and money.

Something you don’t even possess.

That’s what wants you dead.

Your lucious feathers, your exotic presence.

Gone.

Given away for someone who will never understand life without the greed and luxury of ruining an ecosystem.

How long can you fly away until you can’t anymore?

How long until your feathers are no more?

How long until you give in, give up?

Your natural feathers, the one thing that makes you different from the rest.

Would Darwin have used you if he knew what beauty you held?