Hunted down by unknown tracters
by Gil Gregorio
by whims of their own agony
creeping like woodworm sacked...
about to obey shouts outside
while the prey hunters slowly,
gently, crawling the camped slot!
Which one is not belonging
to this lowlied feathers
by the wings of an embicile?
Which one is not searching
to this hallowed fetters
by the shouts of a blind?
Ah...poorly little maggots
shun away by their own pestering
and their own proud heart deludes
from the point of their shyness...
Who am I then to judge
and be judged by the innocents? !
Ah...poorly bigger maggots
fought their own losses.