I hear it now the sound of horn, of pounding
hooves, approaching doom,
heralding the silhouette of closing pack,
surrounding me.
Hear my scream when chase is done, who
witnesses my end?
The hatred in too many eyes as snarling rows of
teeth descend.
For me the game is all but o'er, for them the sport is done.
For he that wears tradition's red, could he not have
used his gun?
If it be wrong that I exist, if death be all that fate
decrees,
then let it be with dignity, anything but this I plea.
I kill to eat, but not in fur, I know no other way,
if God himself invented me, have I not a right to
stay?
Out of breath and out of life, their trophy stains the gound,
One final cry escaping, unheard by man, unheard
by hound.
Pray, tell me who will feed my cubs, when hunger
starts to make her rounds?
Geoff Ash
