The Dance of Flies

Calin Walmsley

In halls of thought, we lay our claim to fame

Above animals, we etch our noble name.

‘Look!’, we cry, ‘my intellect's great might—

I am the day, and all else is the night’.

Claiming dominion over birds and beasts,

We boast of our right to nature's lavish feast.

Each creature is a tool to use, to employ,

To bend and shape the world as if a toy.

We pen our flocks, their trembling forms to hide,

In factories, where dreaded machines reside.

In places of despair, cages bind,

The humble cow and pig to a fate unkind

We tame the cow, and bend the pig to law,

When blood and feathers mix with straw.

We feast and gloat, while they in anguish lie,

and boast of what makes man so high.

But listen! The fly, that winged, trifling thing,

Who dares disturb its god-appointed king.

Its buzzing hum, a note in disarray

In our grand opus, has no part to play.

In haste, we strike the simple pest away.

A violent swat concludes its fleeting day.

A minuscule life, by our wrath undone,

As if beneath the ever-watchful sun.

Yet, death's embrace spares neither man nor beast,

Breaking the chain from the greatest to the least.

Both fly and man, the humble and the grand,

Become alike, both fodder for the land.

In vaults below, where darkness blinds the eye,

The worms and flies their solemn feast apply.

Each tiny jaw a sign of life’s own dance,

Where the low and small claim their inheritance.

No grandeur shields us from this final plight,

No intellect delays the coming night.

In death’s vast hall, no rank or creed survives,

Both man and fly live short, ephemeral lives.

Therefore, before you make your lofty claim:

In life and death, we're creatures much the same.

The humble fly we swatted in disdain,

Will dance upon the remnants that remain.