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The other day, blood flowed. Litres of viscous scarlet fluid flow from the slit throat Women, men, and the children watch in reverence and breathe in the smell of spilt blood. The gutted animal now lies silent. The body slumps, an inert mass. Around the body activity picks up. Without delay, to each his task. The water, the fire, the frigid night. For it must be cold. The stench of singed bristles mixes with the smell of the stable. Water freezes on hands working quickly to strip the hide. Soon enough, its entrails still warm, the butchered animal split, cut, salted, ground, sewed and weighed graces the table. To nourish or to celebrate, in Ardèche or Limans, in Fez or Lima, in Mali or Delhi the beast, with respect, is laid low with one clean blow. To kill with neither joy nor pride To kill because it is that which binds us to life To remember, always, that the meal so delicious was Flesh and blood-cries and mud. Sustenance and awareness Intertwined with life and death The blood of the beloved beast Sacrificed for human vitality. To understand this is to grasp what is humane in humanity. And is it not this humanity which the modern barbarians try inexorably to destroy? Denis Brutsaert
Traduction : Joanne Kauffman Fox-Amphoux
BLOOD " A Shepherd’s Poem"
- Accueil
- Michel Muraour
- Angelica Julner
  - un lieue 2010
  - assemblages
  - ceramiques
  - noir et blanc
  - Joséphine
  - Tripettes sang
    - assiette
    - sang
    - blood
    - BLOD
  - c.v. contact 2