The essence of the jungle
preserved in one small being.
The trees are gone, the desert come,
the people there are fleeing.
But to the man who holds it
it is but a small prize
a little jungle carving,
that trumpets to the sky.
He cannot see the blood and pain and fear
the cutting of the jungle,
the arid desert of tears.
The little elephant that trumpets
reaching for the sky,
used to be a lumbering beast
but then it went and died.
That's how he'll think about the lie.
He doesn't care that the little elephant
only wants the sky.
