Oh how the bat lives in the dungeons,
Sees the dungeons,
The stalagmites and stalactites – the canines of a monster –
And crashes past the murky night, in all the gloom,
Hunts the fruit in the dark,
A nocturnal feeder searching for
Her freedom from a protracted sentence.
Oh how pitiful that the day-sleeper
Knows no sunshine,
Yet makes a gloomy grotto, a home
With roof above, ground beneath,
Darkness abound, and gazes
From the corner of a cave opening
To see the moon. Her dream.