All night long the cat has wailed,
Halting the darkness in its trails;
I have groped and gulped water and peed,
Turned and tossed in my bed and quailed.
The kitten was young and its queries small,
The wheels that rolled were a game after all.
Did they yield food or did they shield death?
Thrilling it was to match that crawl.
A girl-cub or a boy-cub, no one knows
Save the grim pallbearer crows;
Who as they will in their ravenous mercy
Flick a quick luncheon-cum-autopsy.
Yet, it’s better when the quarry is strung,
Lynched by the neck and stealthily flung
Like a human foetus in a garbage dump
Unmoored, unmourned, unloved, unsung.
These pining cats, how they smudge their souls,
With claws of grief blacker than coal!
Winging it low the crows now flow
Looking for a hurled girl-child in throes.