Blood soaked white fur,
pressed into the cage;
a twitching, pink nose
conceals overwhelming rage.
Number 642
in a laboratory of lies.
They want us for our tear ducts,
our docile, pink eyes.
Restrained in the stocks,
so that I cannot move.
All for these tests,
but what do they prove?
Caustic chemicals,
drizzled into our eyes;
they watched transfixed,
enthralled as we fried.
A torturous existence,
filled only with dread:
this is the life
for which I was bred.
My collective unconscieous,
shows me carrots and leaves.
They stole this from us -
they are the thieves.
I also glimpse meadows,
where bunnies run free;
utopian pastures,
I will never see.
Perhaps in the night,
in the still and the calm,
we can escape
and return to the farm.
A place where the victims’
wounds can be nursed;
and with time, come to terms
with the heartache and hurts.
It will only be then,
that our fear can abate,
as they tell the press,
It was all a mistake.
Fried bunny rabbits,
dead on the floor:
a sight even a vivisector
would have to abhor.
’Till then we=re condemned,
to a lifetime of pain.
For them our anguish equals
profits and gain.
On supermarket shelves,
the shampoos that you buy,
deceptively boasting
“baby, don’t cry.”
I long for the warren,
tempting me from the sky,
I’ll be released from the torment
on the day that I die.

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Copyright 1994 Ilanit Tof, All Rights Reserved.