The Hunted

My name is Vinduloo.
Across the plains the wind blew,
we are the grazers of grass,
they say our tusks are made of brass.
I am the last elephant,
they say I have no intelligence.

Hunted we are,
taken away are our calves.
They chase us underneath the trees so tall,
running, running until we fall.
They kill us till were no more,
Scaring all the boars.

I run, pounding through the dirt,
all the shrubs, I skirt.
The hunters they draw their guns,
my heart it pounds under the sun.
I run on, persistent,
and disappear into the distance.