Where The Church Bells Do Not Ring

A fox cub ventures out of his den For the first time on a pretty Sunday morning. He should not have left. On these days, when church bells ring out, All is silent in the forest— There is always peace. The trees—tall and swaying— Make the fox cub nervous, But he has other things to fear. In the distance, the church bells do not ring; The fox does not detect their gentle harmony That reaches his ears so sweetly, Like a lullaby to rock him to sleep. Instead, he detects a cacophony of explosions— There is evil just around the corner. Yet, the fox cub is too young to know What is right and what is wrong, So he walks towards the curious sound Until he is belly-deep in mud And he can’t walk any further. Now, the crashes are all around; His fight or flight tells him to run, But, as much as he pulls and pulls, He is in vain— He will never leave this spot again. One day, The soldiers might find his body: Frozen stiff and plastered with the thick Mud they have all come to despise. Perhaps they will take pity on the small creature And give him a warm bath To show him some kindness in such a cruel world. Maybe, then, they will cradle him To keep him warm Throughout the brutality of winter That he did not live to experience. Perhaps, the mother fox Still calls for her son When the light hits on Sunday mornings. She calls in case there is a chance She may see him again— To curl up around him and keep him close With her tail— But her never answers her desperate pleas, And she knows. She knows.