Run from the Butcher

©04-16-2022

Winds blow dust, stormy, earthy clouds against the stey,

Against cliffs, valley floors made of orangey clay,

The buffaloes stampede the dirt, pound the dust with clout

They produce. Masses of thousands, have force this rout

The earth gives to their demand, reverberates the thunder

Of their hooves, the echoes of gods yield to their demand

For freedom unbridled, untamed, their power to remand;

Enemies on the hunt for their home, a yield for butcher.