The wolf said to Francis
“You have more sense than to some,
I will not spoil the legend;
Call me, and I shall come.
But in the matter of taming
Should you not look more near?
There's howlings come from humans,
Their hatred is their fear.
We are an orderly people,
Though greater pain and need,
We do not kill for torture;
We do not hoard board rate that hold for greed.
But the victim has the vision-
A gift of sorts that’s given
As some might say, by history
And you, perhaps, by heaven.
Tomorrow or soon after
(Count centuries four days)
I see (and you may also
If you will turn your gaze)-
How the sons of man have taken
A hundredfold their share,
But the child of God, the creature,
Can rest his head nowhere.
See, sky and ocean empty,
The earth scorched to the bone;
By poison, gun starvation
The last free creatures gone.
But the swelling tide of humans
Sweeps on and on and on.
No tree, no bird, no grassland
Only increasing man,
And the prisoned beasts he feeds on-
Was this the heavenly plan?”
Francis stood there silent.
Francis bowed his head.
Clearly passed before him
All that the wolf had said.
Francis looked at his brother
He looked at the forest floor.
The vision pierced his thinking,
And with it, something more
That humans are stony listeners.
The legend stands as before.
Naomi Lewis
