He never got much of a taste for meat.-
Artemis sometimes brought his aunts a deer.-
And where he sang, birds flocked there without fear,
small beasts as well, which made it seem a cheat

to knock them on the head, and make a stew.
His wife had no such scruples. Rabbit pie
with onion was her favourite. He would lie
and say he was not hungry. It was too

awful to think of this after her death
-he’d not been kind to her, spurned kitchen love.
When he came back from Hell, he killed a dove
and tried to eat it raw, Was short of breath

from all the feathers. So went back to weeds
that he picked as he sang, raw fruit and seeds.

About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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