The Wild Creature: What Your Eyes Missed?

If you enter the Selva,

On a Summer Evening late,

When the sound of intoning bees fill the glade,

When the trouts rest with its mate,

A swoosh is heard.

Among the black brooding herd,

Clouds of dust and smog is stirred,

It sweeps every herd,

As quick as a storm it leaves a pool of thick red there,

What is seen are the shadows,

What is left in the blair,

Are only grooves that seem to be foreshadowed.

No one knows what it is,

But gossips tell that kind is wild,

None craves for the info,

And if one sees, that will be the last sight in the wild.