18 August 2005
An old man stands over a fire,
and mixes goat's blood in the soup;
a small gathering of kin watch
quietly. No one asks questions.
But the skinny armed girl shivers
seeing the old man stoke the fire
and laugh as if the fire tickled.
That night the sky grew hollow.
Something grim loomed in the distance,
the wind died, nothing seemed to move,
a white spectre in the darkness.
The old man stood peering in
as the skinny armed girl slept.
© 2005, Satya J. Gabriel