I’m at the beginning of a new writing journey. And thought I’d share this piece, An Endling’s Lament. Endling is the heart-breaking term given to the last individual of a species or its type.
They called me Ruzi. I was the last of my kind.
You can hear me on the wind. You can see me in the stars. That is where my kind have returned. You cannot touch us, you cannot smell us, you cannot know us. We are beyond your hunting and killing now. Your zoos, your science, your curiousity could not save us.
They called me an endling. The last of my kind.
We were your cousins, way back when. Before your civilisation took place, before you abandoned us and believed your own deceptions about supremacy. Before you stopped being animals. Before you started being such animals. If you look, in your records, and your photographs, you can find us, welcoming you, embracing you, trusting you.
I saw brothers and sisters returning from our green homeland, maimed and bleeding from your traps and hunting. My sons and daughters, caught up in your wars and greed, who did not return. My world was full of orphans. Like you, we mourn. If we were human you’d call it ‘genocide’. We have no politicians, no soldiers to defend us.
They called me Ruzi and. I am Ruzi no more. I am Gorilla of the mountain no more. I am your label Gorilla bengei bengei no more.
Remember me. Remember us. For we are all endlings. We are all the last of our kind.