by Manfred Clynes

They Do Their Work

The butcher

Works daily, red with blood

Dismembering animals :

(We call it) meat

So we can

Eat

Yet, he does not eat

More than We do

When he comes home

His wife, his children do not

Want to know

Of blood

Only at night he dreams

Of living, joyful animals

The night penetrates his dark spot

Blinding him by day

The butchers of Buchenwald

Played their violins

The butchers of Brisbane

Play with their children

Which is play and which is reality?

They do not ask They are not told