There hangs from the rafter, a few pounds of
Young meat in the butcher shop, drained out of
Blood, the thud of heart and any signs of life;
Tumbled about the stooping head is the tress,
Which flows in the wind as ends the duress,
As well as the hard-pushed journey and its strife.
Before this was a flutter, during the elope,
As the frail skin warded off the grating rope,
An effort which only tightened the knot more,
While hands try to grasp something, even the air,
Many times before ending the show of gore,
And then slowly coming to a halt inside the snare.
And before this crept a fear, in every slumber,
In the crackle of dry leaves when beasts lumber,
Or in the creak of the makeshift door unbolting
In the wind, proving it had swallowed all of us,
That what had happened was a tremor, jolting
Everyone out of normality and pushing into ruckus.
And before this was a run, followed by lustful
Steps, through the spooky estates, on the path full
Of lewd tongues, paused only to gasp and pluck
Shards from the feet, and retrograded by a clasp,
Which tore up the fleece, dragged it in the muck
And faded away in the bush while claws made a rasp.
It is time for yet another prey, for sure it’s them
With the same foul breath and the disgusting sperm;
In the flock, another young one they will be after,
And if men ask me how on earth I have a clue,
For before all of this, from the very same rafter,
Two months ago, on a gruesome day I was hung too…
“In memory of the death of siblings in Walayar”