Fists upon a bed of soft grass;
Fell the tears of heaven hateful;
In cries of anguish and the flashing bright
(trees trembling at the fate of their smoten fellows)
A hunter crouched, bright blade drawn out
And with it cut and incised - precise.
Stomach out first (leaving blood upon the ground
staining green with red as fast as tears
could wash it thereoff again) then intestines
Kidneys, liver, the lot.
A spike through the heart mirrors the disgust
That spits on the ground
As the ever Noble hunter roasts his flesh
Upon a fire he made (a better taste keeps away the devil’s hand.)
Later to ember out in anger colder still
Wrath shaking those trembling trees
Leaving the ground stolen of colour
And the hunter breathing out his soul.
Inside his meal he finds a makeshift home
Its skin now his,
Its blood his covers.
He sees the trees and joins along
Then hides his face deep in his host’s hide
(Imagining the gods raging) and tries to speak
(yet his name into the frost fades away).
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