On Slaughtering Poem by Muhammad Shanazar

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.

Be aware treat them with care,
Be loving, grateful and kind,
For they are the feeding servants,
Give you flesh and fur, milk and marrow,
And for the sake of yours,
Suffer painful agonizing death.