At The Butcher's Shop Poem by BASAB CHAUDHURI

Standing at the butcher's shop on a Sunday morning, I think -
there is a long queue and orders vary,
the taste bud gets stimulus from the dead animal's body,
that's when I feel - are Sundays especially cruel?
I don't know, I really don't know,
I have evolved from the hunters - gatherers,
my ancestors sat around the kill and used to eat,
I am somewhat like them.
Cruelty, yes - made useful for living;
sacred too once the animal is sacrificed before the Deity.
Just before the animal was killed, it was taken at a distance -
not taken, but dragged, when it had got the feeling of knife,
it had a last look at us, we were unmoved.
Now the external skin taken out, it hangs from the hook,
and the order follows:
the upper part of the legs, the breast, a portion of liver -
delicious lunch menu on the platter.
The tongue feels wet, brain brings back the taste of cooked flesh -
and my feelings -
are Sundays especially cruel?
I don't know, I really don't know.