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I heard it squealing pitiful-loud last night, again and again.
But a blast of thunder woke me- and from my torture saved me.

Alas, fifty years hence, my nemesis it is so real,
haunting me so- making me twist, toss and turn- sleepless always.

Sometimes too the helpless thing I see,
oh, why is not merely hearing the agony enough?

'Stop it, please.
Don't hurt it no more.

Why I don't even like sausage or bacon,
or chops or brains, for sure.'

It is no use, I know,
as my ears I cover, my eyes filling full.

At last, I hear nothing- but men's voices doing.
Yet dare I peek out the window to see?

I summon the courage and look,
and that sad sight oft I see in the darkest of night.

Over, but never over.
Out of mind, out of sight- sometimes only.

Oh, but one time quite long ago,
it spoke to me- and eased me back to sleep.

'Do not fret, little girl,
I'm doing okay, I am.

No more pain or ills to riddle or rack,
no more badness do I feel.

Thank you for caring- about my kind.
Soon many more the same may feel.'

When I now lay me down to sleep,
indeed mindful-hard do I try,

Those soothing words of comfort to hear.

by Linda Gantt

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