The Wild Beast

The wild beast On the savanna runs the spring-bock not easy to catch by lions, but as it gets older and slower, it loses out and becomes a meal for the predators. A million years ago my ancestors hunted them too, the killer instinct is in our blood. Portugal remembers the past in Fado the sadness of time lost. On a farm with brown and white milking cows, one of them gives birth to a male calf, it is slaughtered after a fortnight there is no point feeding it. The male spring-bock is luckier it gets to copulate and run free for many years. We struggle to live long some people buy bikes in the hope to live to a hundred and four, if sounds long it is not only blink by a star.