Poetry

As if killed, turned on its own back,
the serpent lies motionless, as if asleep
while something in the black eyes glow
 
while its measuring spitting, striking distance,
waiting as if by chance, brooding its hidden evil
as it comes alive as a deadly hissing, spitting thing
 
and kill it certainly will, when movement returns to it
and the white ring around its neck is bright
while it is ready to strike, to deadly hit.