So where are your mammoths?
Thundering, blundering into the ghosts
Of elephants; trumpet and tusks
Cry out, lash out, at the boasts
Of hunters; whose fun with a gun
Has turned kings into blooded roasts
For vultures; tooth and claw defiling
The rotten blubberous beast. But a chorus
Of locusts buzzing. The swarm that will
Suck the life out of murdering poacher’s
Fields; parched, dry. Now hunger. Dead.
Like the leathered giant who suffered most
By the rifle; a weapon to beat off an army of bugs?
Pah! He who shot the elephant dies slow’st.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
nice write... well narrated/expressed