To their amazement the hyena
could sit and listen to Chopin or Bach—
the Nocturnes, the Preludes,
whatever, even Debussy’s Le Mer—
and see them as ancient maps
full of monsters and mermaids.
Listen to them roar—
Listen to them sing—
the ones who die are the lonely ones,
the ones who carry all your sentences—
not as words of amazement—
but as poems of silent daydreams and silent lies—
poems folded like an old map in an old attic.
Go ahead and listen.
Then eat the lion.