we are eight billion mouths,
eight billion hooves pounding dust,
a storm of flesh without a map,
grazing on borders that shift like mirages.

the lions wear suits now.
they do not roar, they legislate.
their teeth are spreadsheets.
their claws compound interest.

we birth our young in motion,
teach them to run before prayer.
some call it tradition.
others call it wage.

the sky does not care if we reach water.
the earth does not mourn the stragglers.
we are not a people?
the people?
by the people?
we are a tide.

when the guns bark,
we do not ask which wolf invented the bullet.
we split into smaller herds,
whispering, this way is safer.

one day, the plains will burn.
one day, the rivers will poison themselves.
one day, the lions will starve,
and the silence will be the first true thing.

until then,
run,
graze,
breed, and
repeat.
until then,
this is not life,
this is migration as an autopsy.

we are eight billion.
we are zero,
in a zoo of decimals.
the lions keep count
but never carry the one.
we are the last wildebeest
licking salt from its own wounds,
mistaking it for wisdom.
suffering is not an exception.
it is a baseline.
pain is only
a fair price
for awareness.
we are only the punchline.
we write our names in dust
and call it revolt.