by Aya Katz
A wild beast with torn flanks goes in hiding to heal,
So rent flesh may ferment and spent blood may congeal;
And it licks at its wounds, as it hides in the shade,
And in silence it grieves; none may know where it's laid.
And whether it lives or whether it dies,
None will share in its pain but the maggots and flies.
But man, when he's hurt, calls for succor and aid.
He won't heal by himself, for alone he's afraid,
Calls physicians to heal and nurses to tend,
For fear flesh is too frail and alone it won't mend:
A gregarious sort, who, even in death,
Needs companions to help him to draw his last breath.