Lines on paper

That you can touch

Only with the eyes,

Can’t compare to

Hot coursing blood and skin and fur

Warmed by the fading sun.

To trace the ebony curve of a claw

With your finger,

And share their warm breath.

Liquid sun-soaked eyes.

But my praise is hollow.

Even drowning in their scent

And seeking sanctuary among them,

My adoration is not for the animal

But for the mythology I wrote myself.

Blood and skin and fur

Is translated into a spiritual essence,

Made base by alchemical longing.

Why should the kangaroos care?

I bring gifts of food,

Enough to buy their affection.

by Marko Laine

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