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I hear bleat,
laden with fear,
from a temple
not very far off.

It is not in chorus
a single sound
that rips the heart
as pity surrounds.

An experience of sorrow
perceiving the ritual
I stay where I am
with a heart pounding.

The goat bathed
walks to the altar
with a garland of rose
jumping with joy.

The priest of Kali temple
performs the puja, lights
the camphor, the poor animal
wriggles with fear and wets.

It bleats hoarse. None care
The slaughterer walks
with a shining sickle .
People become ecstatic.

The goat trembles
he axle comes down.
The garland hangs, part on
the body and the rest on the head.

The goat's eyes flicker
and finally close.
The devotees hail Kali.
A sacrifice unholy.
Hail To Kali

Meenas, this is powerful and frightening when one considers it could be true

This is your strength Meena, and Siva too, to write
of an your culture.

I hear bleating

Thanks Ken for dropping in.

Frank,
The poem is still a draft.
Looks not fully completed.
Your modifications really helps.