poetry texts, poem archive at plagiarist.com

After the kill, there is the feast.
And toward the end, when the dancing subsides
and the young have sneaked off somewhere,
the hounds, drunk on the blood of the hares,
begin to talk of how soft 
were their pelts, how graceful their leaps,
how lovely their scared, gentle eyes.


Anonymous submission.

Added: 2 Mar 2003 | Last Read: 30 Aug 2008 3:52 PM | Viewed: 1787 times

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