And in the countryside, where farms are, the trees have been cut down to create farmland. Or should we think this is more the cycle of life. This poem doesn't want me to go in that direction. The cycle of life sounds too wholesome, to spiritual for the language in this poem, for the images. It beat the shapes of harps into the air.
Angels play harps.
Again I see the binary. But the dead meat in the butcher shop doesn't sound wholesome. Maggotty cow hide. Life lives on death in a progression that marches through the butcher's door or congregates outside the window and looks in. In what way are we the butchers of our world.