Oh how the bat lives in the dungeons
Sees the dungeons
The stalagmites and stalactites – the canines of a monster –
And crashes past the murky night, in all the gloom.
Hunts the fruit in the dark.
A nocturnal feeder searching for
Her freedom from a protracted sentence.
Oh how pitiful that the day-sleeper
Knows no sunshine
Yet makes a gloomy grotto, a home
With roof above, ground beneath
Darkness abound, and gazes
From the corner of a cave opening
To see the moon. Her dream.