ºÝºÝߣ

Madrid, Spain

LIVING GRAVES We are the living graves of murdered beasts Slaughtered to satisfy our appetites We never pause to wonder at our feasts If kine, like men, can possibly have rights We pray on Sundays that we might have light To guide our footsteps on the path we tread We’re sick of war—we do not want to fight— The thought of it now fills our heart with dread. And yet—we gorge ourselves upon the dead! Like carrion crows we live and feed on meat, Regardless of the suffering and pain We cause by doing so. If thus we treat Defenseless animals for sport or gain, How can we hope in this world to attain The peace we say we are so anxious for? —George Bernard Shaw, 1856–1950