The hippopotamus wallows in the mud
of the world but the shallow pool,
clear and crystal, remains unseen,
out of the sight of the dear old chubby hippo;
he has not made the decision on purpose,
he just has the guilt of the river
on his shoulders.
Not understanding that the massacre
of elephants was not his fault,
he carries the remorse
of being a hundred miles away
on the day the poachers came,
to him the mud
is the only salvation he knows.