蜘蛛の糸 Spider Thread

This is not meant to show disrespect, this is meant to show pain.
In illness and suffering. When eternal thoughts cannot temporal justify.
Willpower is precious; but I mourn too for his victims.

Wise Budda Upon High,
Dark and darksome Sky.
Into the abyss does he stare,
on his straw-covered lotus chair.
In compassion would fain droop,
A tender crystal fishing thread.
Into blue abyss profound,
The silky line fell, making not a sound.
Though with fragrance did it lure,
drowsy and sweet, the bugs---
swarming to the scent of dark,
darksome crimson lotus.
His straw-covered lotus chair.
"Those who will it will have if found"
Stolen,
"Those would hang who wish to hang"
 Upon on the golden strand.
men and women and children did go.
so did pigs, fowls, lions and other animal souls.
(fishes though. live in the water.
and are too fatty to be carried up) 
from the deep, deep blue earth,
to the dark, dark wearisome paradise.
see their rheumy decaying form,
hanging upon that golden line,
pedigree--family trees. 
in gyrating generations.
while those who are up goes dry,
who are down receive some piss and sweat.
in solemn ascension duty-bound.
to black fate, all things will doom and die.
Budda, sympathetic, though.
Would thus sometimes,
Spit onto the suffering souls.
Upon his easy straw-covered lotus chair.
See the dead bodies rising up,
From blueness to black.
Retrieves then his fishing strand
of some moist and salted dried meat.
Wise-Spider, does now eat. 
Good for those clamour and fight,
One day snap the thread in twain,
into deep blue earth we may go.
Perchance into caerulean water-caves,
As fatty, white, blind 
Happy fishes free in our happy water

Like fishes must live in the water; cats, as a carnivore, cannot stop eating meat. No incantation, yoga diet or medication can change this. Willpower cannot fight against physiology. This is the cruelty of Nature we cannot prevent, at least in the present. I do not wish to deny this, I do not wish to deny carnivores their meat. I have had my glimpses of the jungles, where everything is devoid of true willpower, and creation is the preparation of meat for the feast of collective murder afterwards. I want to love even so Nature's cruelness, and find something blue for them in my poem. Let us hope, science, as she triumphs, shall one day relieve us not only of the necessity of meat, but food altogether. Let the blind fishes that must suffocate in their subterrain paradise in a cave be free----- and into black, black cosmic heavens become fly-fishes. Garuda birds.