In 2006 I had the privilege of visiting the mountain gorillas in Uganda, one of the last remaining troops in the wild. I was particularly moved by the sound they made. This poem is a comment not only on the senseless wars that are decimating the lives of the animals and humans in this area and the DRC, but also on the cynical exploitation of these conflicts by mining and logging companies. |
The
Gorilla’s Song
The gorilla does not speak She sings A creaking song of lowing grief Of membranes ripped by metal teeth Of crashing trees with flailing roots Of tender shoots on earth’s bruised face Trampled down by muddied boots The gorilla does not speak She sings A groaning song of futile strife Of the carrion call of warlord troops Of the ones who turn their backs on life And burn the grass beneath their feet Then whimper at its searing heat The gorilla does not speak She sings A murmuring song of falling light Of thudding bodies, wrenched from trees of severed black gorilla hands that blood-soaked in a bucket lie Raised to mute unheeding skies The gorilla does not speak She sings A lone lament of keening loss Of forests razed, of children damned The last rays of the dying green That gild our memories as we yield And sink beneath grey tides of greed © Bridget Pitt |