Bleeding fleshes ground up and made a hard stick

To chew slow in cold times

When otherwise everywhere is ice rock

The lambs brain and feet and heart smashed

With salt into its thinned out intestine

So teeth scrape its fey layers of fat

What’s left of the sheep inside sheep

Petrified meat off a long-buried bone clumsy in shape of a bone

Like old hands would have pressed a bone flute

Passed from the summer

When sausage meat grew like bee song on each grass head in every meadow.