I crave to be in the wild,

Like a hare making it's way through the brush,

The golden sun setting below while you seek your covered shelter,

I find it morosis,

That even now I should be prey,

For in the wild, each day is a life risked,

Though a small hare may be taken as a simple meal,

I would much rather die by the paws of a lion,

Than by my own species,

Yet we die, each day,

By our own kind,

So I push this betrayal aside,

And go my own way,

A sacred wild place,

Where I can be prey to a different kind,

far away from mine.