In plain words
A king was raising a green parrot. Its home was a golden cage. Its food was sweet fruit. The water it was given was a drink like amṛta. Every day, for his pleasure, the king himself would give it these fruits and drinks, talk with it and play with it. Even so, was that parrot happy? No. Whenever one looked, it seemed sad. Why? Its Manas was not on the golden cage, nor on the tasty fruits and drinks, nor on the grand thought that the king himself was serving it; it did not think of these or look at them. “When shall I go and perch on the branches of a tree in a lonely forest?” That was its longing. Though its body enjoyed every comfort in the palace, its Manas was pining for the forest. Why? Its birthplace is the forest. Its home is the branch of a tree. It feels to that parrot that living simply in its own place is better than enjoying luxuries in a place not its own. If man had even this much sense, what would he lack? Paramātma is his birthplace; Prakṛti is a place not his own.