Deep in the nameless valley which has no road
and is protected by thorny bushes and hissing snakes;
in a clearing, beside a ruin,
where its people had fled grinding poverty of yore,
I came across a camel and a brown, short tailed mongrel.

The mongrel growled at first, but the camel,
the most sociable of the two, or perhaps the most naive,
told me that they had fled from a circus when its
whip lashing owner died and
where they had learned to speak posh radio Swedish.

By pretending to be a big and a small boulder during
the day and by walking at night,
they had found this valley of peace;
and I had to promise not to tell anyone about its location.
Stayed with them for a few days
until my food ran out and since I don’t eat grass
or chase rabbits, left.

Followed a goat track up when a shot cracked and
echoed ominously through the vale,
ran back and found the camel dead,
bubbles of blood on its soft lips,
and proudly around,
pictures taken a group of Hunters who ignored the grief stricken cur.
Gloomy I walked back and at heel a sorrowful dog.