I am not human.

I do not understand your strange beliefs,

Nor your ineptness to understand.

Wood turns to metal

But minds stay unchanged.

People cling to old ways,

Uncaring of the death they bring.

My bone is ground

For medicine,

Even when the world

Has learnt greater cures.

My tusks are carved

And my skins are cut

So that people

Might think they look a little prettier,

Even when the world

Is too ugly for veiling.

My very body

Draws hoarders

To stand me in their dwellings

Even when the world

Has kinder art.

I am not human.

I do not understand your love of suffering.

Nor your hatred of change.

And it is because of this

That I will die

With the rest of my kin;

And we will be gone from the world

With only whispers of ghosts to stay.

Then

And only then

Will mankind wish for change.