The Unkindest Cut Of All Poem by Ravi Panamanna

It is a common scene in these parts to see lorry loads of cattle being finally packed off in the following manner to reach the hands of a butcher. Is it not a sin to squeeze out their sweat and blood in this manner? When are we going to get out of our selfish motives?
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In a truck, in a heap,
It is a silent march unto death.
They are dispatched to unknown shores,
They are within twilight zones.

They are packed, they are marked.
They are squeezed, their life ransacked.
Away from the meads and gentle streams
Unto sky, it is a tacit scream.

Silent are their eyes,
Violent is our vanquishing world.
And these quadrupeds in a few hours
Finally meet a butcher’s dagger.

Soon they fill our palate,
Over is the long, losing battle.
Teeth and fork enter a long clatter,
A chapter closes behind a clamorous laughter.

Where are our whispering brooks?
Where are our patting hands?
Their milk is our very blood,
But in return, we draw their blood.