There is a pretty little animal.
'Twas a foundling of beauty and course.
Hard to explain is the picture before thee......
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Close thine eyes.
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A sea wrenched ice shore, covered in the motherly love of the baby harp seal.
Mothers strewn in contemporaneous life of nurturing fulfillment's.
Suckling is the sound of the air with the purrs of the pups in love in such an elegance of white fur.
A sheen is the fine silk of their hair, never to be replaced in all it's beauty as the sun does shine upon it in colors of purely heavens nature.
Upon the horizon you see a smoke, driven aback by forward speed.
Silent is the wisper of a distant roar.
Growing ever steadily.
A roar to grow to deafening.
Run ashore for planks to fall and men to approach with instruments of unknown worth.
The wielding of such an instrument, is in it self; a bewilderment.
Shaft of wood is it, with tipped steel to a point?
Circular angled blade extending off the tip out towards the shaft as back to the human holding it and looking the appearance of teeth along it's curve?
Upwards the shaft comes.
......................A PAUSE...................
Sudden quickness to drive forward at baby to club, "while alive". Blade, to skin as in such a manner their names were chosen.
the thunder of Sea is not enough.
As the wails of the Baby Harp seal are heard above all except the TEMPERAMENT of the hapless mothers.
With forward flush they charge, to be driven aside by stray hot steel. Smoking cannon of death has approached upon darker wings still.
the slaughter is seen by all, hapless mothers knowing of the ways, do run with tears in eyes.
A bewildering cry as own childer does lie flopping on the ground.
Minus their skin.
© Book of Nod
2000
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