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The day my little boy was killed,
when his precious,
youthful blood was spilled,
lost, I retreated into the jungle.

I heard voices cry, beg and plea
and ask God why?
However for me,
there could truly, only be the jungle.

Reason and logic, there decreased;
no longer did
restraint or peace
exist, in my heart or in the jungle.

Wants then became necessities,
absent judgments,
absent vanities;
deftly I, adapted to the jungle.

There, I killed both the strong and weak,
I pounced and preyed
on God's small and meek;
free of guilt, for I was in the jungle.

With ferocity I did stalk,
both fierce and scared,
under wood or rock;
with blind abandon I ruled the jungle.

Then b'neath the dense green canopy,
the need to be
free invaded me.
Lost, again; but this time in the jungle.

At last, the day came; I was killed.
That day the beast
inside me was quelled;
laid to rest, forever in the jungle.

Learn more about this author, Alvaro Ramos.
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