Mad Human Disease
How is it That we can make an animal into a machine And feel no remorse? Assign a number to its face And line it up behind the others And slaughter it Without a trace of guilt . . . How is it That we can turn a loving mother Into a baby-producing machine, Steal her newborns away And stifle her cries of grief And say she doesn?t know Doesn?t care Doesn?t feel . . . How can we cram them into boxes and cages, Let them lie in their own waste Crippled, swollen, deformed - And shovel them And drag them And chain them Like they?re nothing more than broken-down cars or scraps of garbage . . . How can we grind up their remains And feed it to the others - Watch them take their fill Of this make-believe grass Then stumble away sick While we count our profits And laugh like nothing else matters . . . How is it That we see their gentle eyes, Sense their gentle souls, Yet still push it all out And close the iron doors And let destiny take its course - Or at least the destiny we?ve created for them - So we can have stomachs Full of blood and fear and pain . . . The half-dead body Swinging from the hanger Welcomes them One by one - They bow their heads And buckle their knees While the blue sky outside beckons and the free birds sing. But all they see - all they have ever known Is that one ray of hazy light That streams in through a crack in the rafters. Do they feel there must be something more, Something outside this cold, iron-rusted hell? Or do they simply go on counting the days Never dreaming that because of money and greed and gluttony They were put on this earth To die - How is it That we can start a plague And blame everything but ourselves And watch them fall And try to get up And fall again And turn on their cagemates And turn wild and fierce And then decide they must be "destroyed" - yes, just like that, destroyed - So that a whole new generation can take their place And we can be "safe" . . . The sea of bodies goes up in flames . . . The smoke of death rises black into the sky . . . And as the putrid stench fills our nostrils, We experience a fleeting moment Of what they endured their entire lives . . . And the animal-machines are at one with the grass and the earth For the first time. And then, maybe then, When the smoke has cleared and the ashes have blown into the wind, We see that they are not machines, That they are not stupid beasts - But are victims of our bloody creation And our savage design . . . And then we watch the iron doors slam shut once again And return to feed our sagging stomachs And go back to our enviable lives To complain about all the things That don?t need to be complained about . . . How is it That we can close our eyes - Maim them - Taunt them - Torture them - Rape them - And justify it all by saying That they were put on this earth for our use? How many billions more must suffer Before we stop to ask: How is it That we still haven?t found the cure For this Mad Human Disease?
Natasha Canali Wood
Copyright © 2000 by Natasha Canali Wood. All Rights Reserved
May be used in unchanged form by avowed Animal Rightists if accompanied by this copyright message.
May be used in unchanged form by avowed Animal Rightists if accompanied by this copyright message.