The wild beast

On the savanna runs the spring-bock not easy to catch by lions,
but as it gets older and slower, it loses out and becomes a meal
for the predators.
A million years ago my ancestors hunted them too, the killer
instinct is in our blood.
Portugal remembers the past in Fado the sadness of time lost.
On a farm with brown and white milking cows, one of them
gives birth to a male calf, it is slaughtered after a fortnight
there is no point feeding it.
The male spring-bock is luckier it gets to copulate and run
free for many years.
We struggle to live long some people buy bikes in the hope
to live to a hundred and four, if sounds long it is not
only blink by a star.