Pig-Song

Siefried de Rachewiltz

When they killed the pig
blood on the steaming snow--
the tail lost its curl,
twisted, broke like a twig

when they bathed and shaved and cleft her,
and left her in the cellar on a line.

and when I went for wine
with the cold key in my hand,
a drop had frozen, ruby
on the tip of her soft snout.