They took me to a hill, bound me to a rock
and spilled my innards on the floor.
The woman cried a bitter stream of tears.
The man clutched the knife into his fist.

There was no stop to be had, no pause,
there were no angels to come.
The outcome written on the stone below,
marked by the scars of countless blades before.

A stream-like crack gleamed with red,
its banks welcoming the flow like an old friend.
Someplace else a child is born.
Future offering to desperate gods.