The lilac under my window is in bloom
and smiles purple petals up at me
I smile back.

The wooden floor is rough under my feet
my cotton sheets are folded neatly twice
and birds sing.

How different from the mansion on the hill
where the local millionaire resides
in luxury.

Where men are paid to be his life-long friends
and all his wondrous birds in silver cages
cannot fly.

Where all his sheets are purple silk
and all the golden lamps and polished floors
are marble cold.

And on his window sill there sits a lilac;
its cut glass vase reflecting perfect teardrops
from his eyes.