If chickens could speak our language
And plead mercy in sweet, innocent voice
The poor butcher with a family to feed,
would his sharp, shining blade face a difficult choice?
Would the decipherable clucks make
His hands of experience shudder and tremble
Or the incoherent wails of his hungry son,
Would encourage his courage to assemble
The blade glimmers in it’s familiar fashion
Triumph of survival over relative compassion.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Isle of Tranquility
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