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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=530679" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Pigs</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Spending their entire lives<br>in small, metal cages; growing<br>fat on the cornmeal and<br>corn syrup that sustains them; <br>being unable to fit where<br>fate has housed them, <br>the pigs stare at the ground, <br>gazing into the dirt<br>that softens beneath their feet—<br>their cloven hooves digging, <br>mud clumping, <br>	in the earth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then, one day, while<br>they are daydreaming, <br>pondering about a<br>better life, wondering<br>what it would be like<br>to feast—feral curiosity beaming<br>through the resignation that<br>crusts their drooping eyelids—<br>they fall into a deep, <br>synthetic sleep, <br>a slow-rolling, <br>apneic slumber.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Legs up, the pigs are hoisted<br>onto a stainless steel railing, <br>tethered to it by firmly<br>knotted ropes, and knives are placed<br>between their jaws and their<br>neck bones. Before long, the blades<br>jet in, exsanguinating the beasts, <br>letting the blood trickle down<br>from the jugular veins to pool<br>below the severed skin—<br>dripping, dripping, <br>	heavy, tiny droplets dripping.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As the bodies drain, a machine<br>carries them to a hot, iron cauldron<br>where they are dipped in scalding water, <br>their hair boiling from their flesh, <br>torching as the last streams<br>of life flood from their neck.<br>Pulled up, the air steams as skin cools, <br>and evisceration approaches—<br>decapitation, being slit in half, <br>intestines tugged from the open pouch, <br>bones slipped from inside the muscle…<br>	all washed and cut.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The other pigs remain oblivious, <br>penned up in the comforts<br>of symmetry—held captive<br>in the benefits of a regular meal<br>and a functional routine of being.<br>They do not know that they<br>exist for the purpose of being<br>gutted, nor do they realize<br>that such a reality is an option.<br>They simply stare at the ground<br>and feed themselves fat, <br>	waiting in small, metal cages.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Tim+Stensloff">Tim Stensloff</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=530679" data-title="Pigs de Tim Stensloff" data-description="Spending their entire lives
in small, metal cages; growing
fat on the cornmeal and
corn syrup that sustains them; 
being unable to fit where
fate has housed them, 
the pigs stare at the ground, 
gazing into the dirt
that softens beneath their feet..."></div>
</div>
</div>