The hen is on a march with her nine chicks,
Her cackling sounds urging them on, to move;
Endearing them, building, teaching, giving them strength.
They walk quickly accompanying their mother- soldiers!
Her voice flowing like music, tells them stories;
Excited, they are rapt and understanding:
Young tender voices whispering like moving wind.
They are in search of water and food, and experience:
Home is nowhere on Earth, only for bones and waste.
Enthusiastically, she scratches it for termites and worms;
Yearning, digging deeply, she hopes her children feeds.
“Remember to survive! Remember to survive!” she screams out as they eat!
Every hair on their skin leaps in willful appetites glee.
But there is a childless hen, colourful and proud.
Undilating her pupils, she strolls around the yard,
Throwing her feet to the ground- one step at a time!
All she finds is for herself, her safety;
Luckily, she had not been taken by the hawk, Young!
Lashing her feet and wings, she was dropped. Lost!
She had nothing to bother or worry about, than
He, the rapist cockerel, who would relentlessly pursue her, and
Escape, hot liquid into her wet protruding ass.
Now the rain is coming, a few drops, and she flies into an orange branch:
On it there are leaves to cover her from the water, for
Weather is just as uncertain as life itself!
The rain pours on and on, and on, non-stop:
Her cold and hungry children hides in her spread-forth wings.
Evening came, the next week went, and her children ate her up.
