What happened to the rat,
What hast Thou wrought
From on high, that laid her so low,
Curled around herself like a nautilus?
Her tail pointing to a distance we cannot traverse,
Her tail repellent, ringed like the center of an oak,
The oak we all honor, Thy hand evident
In its roots, its spreading branches, its acorns
Dropped upon us like hail, like a rain of bullets.
What life had she led, the rat, that led to her end
And what ended her—did she creep forth
In search of succor, of suckle to be had from our leavings,
Was she mad in the way of all rats or only in her own?
There is no lamentation for her, no thanksgiving for her death;
There is no melody to make ask our question for us,
When we turn our faces away from Thy glory,
From thine endless wrath. What happened to my friend,
The rat, my enemy, my neighbor, genial bringer of plague,
Survivor of calamity? Time will not answer,
Nor her slick, furred carcass, swept away
Before we can bring ourselves to its required divination.
Our repulsion is less than Thy cruelty,
Than the magnitude of our curious ignorance.