Death of the Antelope #2

Freedom, they say, is hard to win and falls away
like snow melts on a spring morning, slowly at first
and soon it washes away all that wisdom time bequeathed
a new antiseptic existence, life is secondary to
our concrete insistence on blotting out the pasts

It roams the hills empty of sense
Pursuing a goal for the sake of the volcano
long forgotten now stirring
as the ground underneath starts to crumble

Its uncertain feet place themselves with fragile care
Where it will go this summer
it is the last of its kind
and rarity in this world is exploited
it may not live long
its hide preferred over the goat
who can escape and scale great heights
to get away from fear

We can not do that
We bathe in the excrement of the temple
Low lying lands for the vulnerable
Craggy rocks for the nimble

Death of the Antelope