Slowly, slowly protecting every drop,
Quiet and meek echo their feet,
Quiet fills the air for the hunger is prowling.
A shriek in the sky,
A beat of the wing,
Over comes the vulture flying its course.
A flare of a weapon,
The rise of a hilt,
And out comes the bullet to capture the bird.
A moment of silence,
A wait and pause,
The flap of a wing and a beakful of food.
The thud of the feet,
The gentle drop of meat,
The sigh of relief as the bird stands back.
Colourless are its feathers,
Colourful is its soul,
Awake it stands watching the feast.
Forward it steps,
A tilt and a rip,
Throwing the muscle to the weakest.
A sudden shout,
A weasy scream,
And another rise of the gun.
Eye meets eye,
Anger meets anger,
The vulture stands its ground.
And the hunter runs off into the bleak.
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