The Feast Poem by Jan Oskar Hansen

The Feast
The vines are deep green no budding grapes yet,
that will start life as small verdant glass pearls
slowing turning dark red and sweet as generation
before; the essence, of sun, rain and rust red soil
and caring hands. And when the pig is taken out of
its stay and slaughtered in November, there will
much wine drunk and the delicious aroma of roast
pork will be a part of memories of families sat on
a long table in the yard and dogs with full stomach
will love humanity for all time. The sow left behind
piglets and one of them will be the chosen one, so
the tradition can continue into the future.