Living in the streets amongst the trash and the filth
Living on little more than that
Grey and morose as your surroundings
Cultivated into our civilized culture,
This is what you become –
You scuttle across the street,
Grazing by a taxi, gracefully.
Awkwardly elegant – the last bit of nature you hold onto
Why would you rather walk than fly?
How could we strip you of that instinct, of that gift?
The pigeon was not foul until we made him so
Only a civilization such as ours can strip someone of their dignity
Of their beauty
Of their grace
Make them reflect the worst parts of our society
Then scoff at their vulgarity
As if it is not a reflection of our own
Well, they shouldn't be on the streets anyway
Filthy, disease-ridden trash
Of course you didn’t see him in your path,
He was not a part of your plan.