Dead pigs everywhere. That Nazarene killed
our pigs, sent them squealing over the cliff,
into the waters. Now the stench rises
 
to high heaven, poison seeps in our wells;
the madman walks our streets, babbling in tongues
of deliverance, while children cower
 
in doorways, husbands come home late, red-eyed,
beer-breathed, to wives counting, again, the coins
in the money jar. We pray for work, but
 
know our village is done for: those pigs
were our life, paid our bills; we built our fame
on slaughterhouse and butchers, and if life
 
for one means ruin for all, then perhaps
the price is too high. Far better his chains,
his keening like ghosts in far valleys,
 
rumours of tombs desecrated, his face
slashed and haunted. Better by far than this:
falling behind, the world pushing ahead,
 
our land and waters stained by death, our pigs
rotting in the sun, our markets empty,
his legion of demons gone now, free.