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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476483" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Answering The Wolf</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Answering the wolf. <br>Its agony, my own. <br>Its long howl of irreproachable pain<br>enough to silence the mountains <br>with trepidation before something holy. <br>Desecration. A photo. Two dozen wolf corpses <br>pouring over the tail-gate of a pick-up.<br>The bounty of two happy hunters<br>kneeling beside their rifles <br>as if something had been accomplished<br>it would be worth telling their children about.<br>Hard truth. Here is a human. My species.<br>It can do this to anything that lives. <br>From blue algae to Auschwitz, <br>Uganda, Syria, Wounded Knee. <br>Whales, buffalo, Sabra and Shatila, the Amazon, <br>twenty-five million famished children a year, <br>an avalanche of wolves at the back of a pick-up. <br>Beyond wanting to know why <br>there's this black spot <br>in people's hearts and minds, <br>where sentience turns rabid, <br>where intelligence seems <br>the most inspired enabler of death, <br>where the wine of empathy turns into an oil slick, <br>how do you answer the innocence <br>of the wolf, the child, the old growth forest? <br>Life gets in the way of our enterprising hatred of it? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You kill a wolf. You kill a whole landscape. <br>You kill a wolf. And the moon marks you out <br>with an X on your forehead <br>for a thousand excruciating transformations.<br>You kill a wolf. And the rivers <br>will turn against you and bide their time <br>until you come down to the water to drink <br>from your own blood-stained reflection. <br>The sun will begrudge you a shadow.<br>The wind feel fouled by your smell <br>like dead meat in your own house well.<br>Even the maggots who will come <br>to your heart one day <br>like undertakers and garbage-collectors <br>will look upon it not <br>as the virtue of a noble enemy <br>but as an undertaking that's beneath them.<br>They will not stoop to clean your body like a wound.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wolf-spirit, wolf-heart, wolf-mind, wolf-mother, <br>even the white-tailed buck laments <br>this atrocity of psychotic caprice <br>that slaughters simply because it can.<br>I see the moon bare its fangs in proxy for these <br>and the stars dip their spears in poison. <br>And I will dance around the fire with you <br>mad with grief at this wounded eye of life<br>and smear my face with the ashes of a deathmask<br>to regret everything about me that is <br>pathogenetically deranged and inhuman.<br>To rid myself of the reek of those who could do this. <br>Do this to our own. Do this to natives. <br>Do this to wolves. Do this to the air and the water <br>they breathe and drink from. Do this ultimately <br>to themselves when there's no one left to care or notice.<br>These kill to eat. <br>These eat to kill. You and all like you <br>who did and condone this, I ask you, <br>what will you do with the bodies of these wolves? <br>You never ravened for the meat; <br>was it their death that glutted your heart? <br>Were you compensating for some hidden impotence <br>giddy with the knowledge you could <br>extinguish life anywhere on the planet on a whim at will? <br>Were you urinating on your own wombs, <br>the graves of your ancestors because <br>you're the illegitimate runt of your own myth of origins? <br>Are you angry at life because you were born? <br>Do you despise the rose and admire the thorn? <br>I see the narrowing in the eyes of the ancient taboos <br>you've violated like thresholds with your boots on, <br>bruising sacred ground without knowing<br>where it is you walk or the risk you take, <br>the danger you will encounter, <br>because you have been made deaf, dumb, and blind <br>robbed of your eyes, ears, tongue, heart, mind<br>insensate to what now lifts its nose to the wind <br>to find you when you least expect it <br>from the least expected quarter.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">These you killed. You killed in the concrete, <br>and exonerate the act in the abstract.<br>These were blood, flesh, fur, bone, each <br>with a mystic specificity of its own, <br>wild, free, whole, intelligent, and communal<br>each the work of some unknown muse of life, <br>the spontaneity of some lavish genius, <br>the inspiration of the same dark mother <br>that never creates the same masterpiece twice.<br>These had seeing, mind, emotion. <br>These had been touched by the mystery of life <br>and in the shrines of the trees and the mountains<br>offered their delirium up to the moon <br>like drunks beneath a vacant window <br>singing to their own reflections. These <br>accepted their homelessness in this strange place <br>without doing it any harm as if <br>there were no other place they could belong to.<br>These were at peace with themselves and the earth<br>in a way you weren't born with the courage to imagine.<br>These were alert and alive and quick with curiosity.<br>These were noble without lording it over anyone.<br>Were they executed for their innocence? <br>Was there not enough room in your cage <br>for their kind of freedom? Did you envy <br>an understanding they had among each other <br>you haven't enjoyed once in the last twenty years <br>you stayed drunk as a gun lobby in a lazy-boy<br>staring back at the glass eyes of the animals<br>looking down upon you like a decapitated zoo<br>with the pity of the unaccusing <br>that anything that's ever lived<br>could be so full of self-hatred, <br>so full of disgust at the inadequacy of themselves <br>in the midst of so much spontaneous sufficiency, <br>from blue algae on over to blue whales, <br>could be so estranged from their inalienable nature, <br>could be so vindictively blind <br>they'd rather shoot the eyes out of the stars<br>and finger the braille of the bullet holes <br>they've put in the side of their coffins <br>like a mailbox with a return address on it <br>than open their own and read the writing on the wall.<br>Does Cain still blame God <br>that his sacrifice was unacceptable? <br>The farmer! The farmer! Not the hunter? <br>The meat of the hunter not sweet to Her nostrils? <br>So you murder your brother <br>and then you murder the animals <br>as if they somehow let you down.<br>And in the death shroud of the dark mother <br>she sends a crow not a dove, <br>not the wolf, nor the eagles of Rome<br>to teach you how to bury the dead, <br>to teach you how to sow the earth you've salted <br>with meat and bullets and how they only bloom <br>and come to fruition in you<br>like self-inflicted wounds square <br>in the third eye of your own infertility. <br>There used to be hunters wise enough to know <br>the animals they stalked were meant as a gift of a gift <br>not something they ripped off like a petty thief. <br>Now when they catch a whiff of you coming <br>it isn't a hunter they run from but <br>that sickly-sweet freakish smell of death <br>that clings to the skin of an undertaker<br>who moonlights as a serial killer<br>in the deathmask of a terminal disease.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476483" data-title="Answering The Wolf de Patrick White" data-description="Answering the wolf. 
Its agony, my own. 
Its long howl of irreproachable pain
enough to silence the mountains 
with trepidation before something holy. 
Desecration. A photo. Two dozen wolf corpses 
pouring over the tail-gate of a pick-up.
The boun..."></div>
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