The butcher's hen.

Waving like in a swing, recalling my last birth sins, such an omen, here I got on my skin, People carry my living corpse, brutally with a grin.

My legs are stitched with my long cousin, singing I guess the same song, hearing the rhythm of our racing heart, waiting for our final call.

We now silently pray, to withdraw some pain, to bunk our insulted graves, but why do we forget that, previously we were also the pendulum’s blades.