The Hunt This poem is about the scene of the hunt and decapitation of the pig.

Weave through the creepers and towering trees,

Through forest, rocks and down to sea,
Looking for tracks or any sign,
That the pig might have left behind.
A flash of flesh, a muffled snort,
They throw their sticks, but all fall short.
She begins to run,
The chase begun,
They move like one,
The hunt is fun.
The need of blood, the need to kill
The pig’s squeals are high and shrill.
The boys draw near, the swords, they hiss
Thrown with aim, the knives don’t miss.
Beat and stab, rip out the heart,
Slice open her throat and tear her apart.
Chop off her head and hold it up high,
Left for the beast who has fell from the sky.
Blood spots, like the sun at dawn,
To her head, the flies are drawn.