I remember once I met a Man.

The day was hot, and yet he fanned

Not himself but an old, old dog

That lay beside him on the sand.

Intrigued, I stopped and to him said,

"My friend, why do you leave your head

Uncovered in this burning sun

While for this cur you make a bed?"

"Ah, my friend," was his reply,

"Sit with me now while the sun is high.

Share a cup of wine and listen well,

For I will answer your question Why."

"One day, finding myself alone,

Idle and bored I took a stone,

Flung it for sport at a bird in a tree,

And watched as it fell to the dust and lay prone."

"That does not seem a weighty deed,"

I remarked. He answered, "But take heed.

What reason had I to harm the bird?

No reason at all, and-I had no need!"

"I picked up the bird from where it lay,

Writhing in pain, for I did not slay

It outright. It died, and I dearly wished

To undo what I had done that day."

I said, "I do not understand."

His answer-"Look well at my hand!"

Across his palm there ran a scar;

A twisted and thick and ugly band.

"Not long before I killed the bird

I cut myself badly and now I heard

A seeming voice whispering me and-

I can still hear every every word!"

"Do you see the blood on your hands?" it sighed.

"Not yours, but just as red a dye,

And agony as great as yours, and death

As real as the death you'll someday die."

"I dropped the bird and turned and ran-

What horror now to understand

That pain like I had known could strike

At any bird or beast or man."

"And now...and now I cannot see

Suffering anywhere and be

Unmoved, for I know all too well

What grief if who was hurt was-Me!"