Last year ended 350,000 of us were put to death
clubbed or shot, hunters ad infinitum took distant our breath
Close to our mothers, untruthful in that in the snow
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we were but babes and we could not know
When first we glimpsed the ships on the water cold
we were unafraid, not thinking they'd be so bold
But onto the ice and through our territory the men strode
breaching our nursery, and incoming our clan fold
As they approached we looked on, inept to understand
the expressions on their faces, the weapons in their hands
At archetypal we didn't stir, but after the men toward us ran
it at a rate of knots became a slay and we were the lambs
This was our freshman vulnerability to humans, staffs and guns
as we looked up, they rapidly affected us beside their clubs
Some of us didn't die from the blows-we were single stunned
our long whist inert battering as they skinned us, spilling our blood
Later, the parents or fixing babies who managed to survive
moved on the ice and burgundy snow, in disbelief, and cried
Grieving for the straying ones whose fur-less bodies lay so still
not wise if the humankind would be back, or if they'd had their saturate...
To a future, where "their fill" is away and past
a oath to close the killing, an swearing that will final.
Copyright 2007 Kathy Pippig Harris
If you would similar to help, the Humane Society of the United States is a swell launch.