There's a cleft in a rock where blood flows out

from a gorge in Turkestan,

accessible only by arduous routes,

those who see it are mightily uplifted.

 

A blind man apparently started to see

when the sun came round at a quarter to three

on a highly significant alignment day.

 

A man sells ice cream from a four by four

a queue discreetly off to one side,

many pilgrims come to pray

in utter awe and mute prostration.

 

Celebrities with awful restrictions

come far and wide for benedictions

dropping in by helicopter

 

casting shadows across the gorge,

others of course must walk with sticks

but all seek out their religious kicks.

 

No one knows why the blood flows out,

the site is untouchable,

the mystery persists;

 

but every day a farmer comes

along the crest where a clump of trees

seeks out the merest kiss of breeze.

 

He passes above the holy spot

with head downcast like a tiny dot.

I saw him once with a bucket upended

amidst a patch of fresh killed sheep,

 

watched him with his knife in hand,

the sun just glinting off the blade

the wash of red,  a ritual

of a sort,  the perversion of a holy sport.