On Slaughtering
I claim not, fair or unfair,
But tell you, what I did see,
On the chicken slaughterer’s shop
When I ordered for the one.
They were numerous,
Moving and clucking,
Soft, white and vigorous,
Unaware to the death approaching,
For they were to be dined.
A man callous faced,
Clad in dress blood stained,
Caught one from the wings,
Pressed legs with a clumsy foot,
Wrenching neck, stifled throat,
With the thumb nail.
With a heart hardened by practice,
A long sharp knife, moved crosswise
Blood thick, red and warm,
Welling out from the cut,
Sprinkled staining the dress more.
It uttered not a sound, a cry of pain
As we do, when crushed,
Under the feet of heavy woe.
For we have tongue, voice and wisdom,
But they not.
Throbbing a little became still,
Cutting off legs, he ripped up,
Fluffy soft, feathery cloak.
A thing alive a moment ago,
Was lying lifeless to be served.
Then gutting out entrails,
He made pieces eight,
With a chopper sharp.
Who knows life and death,
Are cousins, close and intimate,
Who knows equal are the pangs,
Of death to great and small.
On eating meet and being fierce,
O man! Detest not the animals,
You too are found of eating flesh,
But the difference is,
You eat spicy cooked,
And they bloody raw.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
Added by Poetry Lover
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