mbironneau

A friend of a friend told me recently that when he used to work at the dog pound, from time to time him and his colleagues would have to put some of the animals to sleep because they didn't have the necessary funds to keep them alive. He said that it was always an emotional time for him when he had to look a dog in the eye right before killing him, but that he knew that if he didn't do it he was slowly killing many others by depriving them of the food etc. they needed to survive. When I asked him how he chose which animals died first, he told me that once he'd "gotten rid" of the sick and old, he and his colleagues would toss coins to decide who lived and died. I was outraged that someone would have so much power over the life and death of innocent animals. So anyway, that's what inspired this poem.

NB: "Bagh" means tiger in Hindi.


The Ballad of Bagh

From shadows none would care to cross,
The hunter of Bagh stepped forth;
His face was pale, with fear embossed,
His rifle trained due North.

His soul concealed in darkened grime,
In places Marlowe would not creep;
Left fear and wine to do the crime,
In jungles so, so deep.

A ray of light shone through a beast,
Led straight to halls of warrior kings;
The hunter now, marred none the least,
Wished God had given him wings.

A wobbly hand, sights misaligned,
The beast could sense his fear;
The wind then shook the hunter's mind,
Bagh felt it and drew near.

One step, then two, now four yards left,
Flames sparked from Bagh's cold eyes;
A growl to warn, of hope bereft,
Said “you or me shall die”.

Thus Aeon stopped the wheel of time,
And birds of death cried from above;
While Darkness rang its hollow chimes,
In hope of end thereof.

The hunter had to squeeze the trigger,
And all would come to end;
But courage lost and no such rigor,
Meant chaos was at hand.

The devils in his mind then preached,
On who would murder whom;
But no agreement could be reached—
The hunter sensed his doom.

The power, yes, the power of death,
Was in his index finger;
A god he was, to take a breath,
Which wasn't his to linger.

To die or kill, to shoot and murder,
An infinite race of thought;
So Bagh became the new decider,
The hunter, turned to rot.


Michael Bironneau