The day, the Kohuwala butcher was butchered
By the hoards, and his cuts were left
Inside the market place.
When there were even no vultures
To settle on the cuts,
Only men who cluttered like house flies,
To glimpse firsthand, how much hate
There was on the edge of palms,
Or on cusps of lenses
How we murdered upstanding men
In front of a murder of crows
Our hearts tormented by the burning rage
And what else, but a blade at hand,
To know both ends of the deal,
The umbilical cord
And finally the jugular.