The Ritual Killing of a Goat
We arrive seconds after the throat was cut
In the hallway, a flight of stairs rising on the
Left, on which are perched a dozen curious
Kids. People bustle as the goat’s pulse ebbs,
Jostling for a glimpse of entrails, blood being
Swept away, the butcher’s knife’s job done. The
Mood is festive, children shake our hands, smiling
At spilt blood, signalling a day of plenty.
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