All Creatures Will Make Merry...Under Pain of Death - Meursault

So long ago that I’m not even sure

If the eyes that the eyes that meet me in my sleep

Are yours at all

Or a mirror of my own

You were there in the crowd

When they tore you to the ground

And through your flesh and bone they did march

Claiming all as their own, leaving nothing for yourself

We burned those wolves last night

And their remain to remind

That in museums made of these flames

We were born, we will grow and we will die