It snows down real slow
Like the clouds are afraid
Of the beasts who roam
The blood soaked mountains
He was named
After an ancient place
With eyes of a wolf
Set on a rogue’s face
A lawless dog
That guarded the law
In a land where
Even the weak were strong
Where wounded men searched
For reasons to draw
Stolen guns and swords
Over a wet bale of straw
Who are we to judge?
or pretend to referee
Wild animals are but
Prisoners of geography
After every cowardly night
had gladly flown
Old Khyber returned
To his bed alone
For eight long years
Not a living thing survived
If with no invitation
An intruder arrived
Such was the legend
of that dog’s patrol
Less dog more demon
A big heart with zero soul
Of all the things
dear to him
He guarded his straw bed
Like it was an old lover’s skin
No one but the chief
Was allowed to approach
About ten yards or so
near Khyber’s porch
Remember that bit
about men in that place
Who killed for no reason
or for no trace
He was but an animal
who only cared for his bed
When people around
killed for reasons unsaid
One day in the chief’s life
As they walked
To his possessed bed
In the morning around five
There in his corner lay
a young pup so sick
That the time in him
was afraid to tick
Khyber did not know
how he had sneaked in
The chief just knew
hell was ready to begin
He looked at his old dog
to see how long it takes
Before the ancient killer
inside awakes
Khyber snarled at
the thief, in his bed
The chief looked at a life
about to be dead
But then the old devil
slowly, turned around
And started to walk away
without a sound
In mid step he looked back
at the chief
Who stared at his fierce eyes
Wise and free
The old dog shrugged
As if to say
I will let life
live this day
A beast planted
a thought in a person’s head
A reason to kill
should be more than a bed.
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