Who Is My God?

At a new moon in the jungle Was brought to an altar A roaring goat, fully black, By an awesome peasant To the fearsome Kali, Made of granite, red in cloak, Under arbour of a peepul, Who before stood At dawn of death, the poor goat Like a bull in a fight, Arresting the attention Of everyone, unknown of his fate. The beast was put to rites, Smeared with sandal paste And fully drenched in water Till he shivered a jerk, Which was taken as token of nod By grace of Goddess for her feast. The peasant was pleased; The priest was pleased; So were all, as though they’re blest. One held his hind-legs, Stretching them well behind, The other bending up his front one, The third locking his head Hard onto the altar For the priest to accomplish. The act was done at a stroke By the learned priest, merciless, For the Goddess, all merciful. Many-wards squirted the blood Like a carpet, red, Before the Goddess, her tongue dripping. All felt that they had met The thirst of Ma, full As did a mother her child, ere asking. The agony that was undergone, Murder they committed, And pathos that prevailed, who noticed? The beheaded beast went straight, To the feet of the Goddess, “Ma, am I not your child? If not, who is my Mother? ” Her lids dripped, She cursed for having been chiseled 25.07.97