That what you're holding in your hands
Is a blood shread,
Is a lost sense,
Is a white death.
That what you rub, fondle, embrace
Once had dignity and grace.
That what you cherish and idolize
Was once alive and it had eyes.
That what you use to worship God
Was once a being, and it had God
Within itself. It had a heart
And skin and tail and trunk and brain.
It died in pain.
What for? For what?
It's a bony evidence of the kill
That you turn to, pray to, ask to heal.
It's a residue of a proud, true life,
Swept away in a murderous dive.
That what you think represents The Great
Is a corpse. Of humanity. And its grave.
Komentiranje je zaprto!
Napisal/a: Aleksandra Kocmut - Kerstin
Ocenjevanje je zaključeno!