They're wolves
feeding off our words, feeding off our actions
Snarling teeth and that nasty breath
They're waiting
and then
the kill.
What will we do?
We're only sheep-
We take our time,
cautious and superstitious,
at our own pace
But as they jump the gun,
bite at their chance,
We'll have nothing
We'll have nothing left-
only the kill itself.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem