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.

Aleksandra Kocmut - Kerstin