Pity them, eyes innocent
inside the coop, the old red barn,
the stable… but do not lament.
Their lives are less than hay and scarn.
We carry them inside our bowels,
blood, flesh, sinew, prostate and brain.
Their whimpers are our cries and howls,
fur and feathers in the rain.
Signs and symbols of our sorrow,
the knife and hatchet cancel birth.
No, they have no far-off tomorrow.
They’ll die here on the dying earth
along with our old architecture,
dialects, fads, fashions, art.
They will not know the odd, strange texture,
of our hosts after we depart.