A chicken sits alone in the forest.
He is finally free.
Perhaps
The only free chicken
In all the country.
This chicken cries.
No tears fall from his eyes,
But plenty flow
From his heart.
First these are tears of joy;
He is finally free from the place of
Cages and Knives,
Free of seeing his kind forced
To lay egg after egg.
Then they turn to sadness.
In his freedom
He has no clue,
On what it is he should do.
He has no family.
No one else of his kind is free.
He scrambles back and forth,
To and fro,
He lifts his wings, ready to go.
But, though light, his feathers weigh him down.
For he, a free chicken, has lost the instinct of flight (They had taken it)
hence
by claw
he carries on,
And when he yet again begins to feel glee at being free,
He runs smack dab into a tree.
At this precise moment
Our free chicken realizes he has
No head,
They had taken it, left him for dead.
Though he is free,
He has no place to go.
Alive, helplessly alive, he
Will never feel what it is to know.
He wishes in vain that he had been
Slain.
He is the only one free. But he is chained.
And we are the ones to be blamed.
Tschüss,
Marta Frieda Hart
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