The hour grows late.
The shadows lengthen.
As ever that supernatural fear
of the savage holds sway.
It calls us to the compound to watch it prowl.
We see it reflected in our eyes.
All we designate high culture comes from that gleam.
We glorify it and call it God.
Yet, still fearful, we seek to swipe it from the face of the earth.
Without that glint what remains to serve up for our delectation?