I know what it means to be loved to death;

The kiss of your metal stealing my last breath;

If only your fear and awe would spare my tribe;

It would mean I get to keep my stripes;

To love me with your hate;

You would cut me open to seal my fate;

One day we will walk this earth no more;

And our kind will fade away like the echos of our thundering roar.


William Blake’s poem: The Tiger

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forest of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could Frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?


The beast was here all along…