Ritual

The smoke falls to the ground Shutters are pulled and locked The rotten carcass gets washed In the flood of unwanted rain; Switching places to avoid itching They squat like old monkeys When the dirty priest shouts The lines from moth eaten pages; She sits silent with her veil pulled Over her head hiding her face; The hollow square of the bricks Hold the fire as it escapes to Reside in the irises of her eyes; She is going to burn all the tales Before the false gods who made Her to sign the innocent oath; Hair hangs loose behind her; Nails are cut to open the flesh; Impure blood is distributed to Tiny hands that grip the feet to avoid The shine of a promising moon; The serpent sees through the cracks Of the walls and wags its forked tongue To draw blood between the robust Thighs when she will be laid amidst Flying of cinders on the river bed.