The boxer's sounds interrupt plosively, while the Jaina vibrate, so repetitive in consonant that all is almost vowel, a continuous voicing. We wish for that passivity, the single vowel of wonder, unchanging reverence for the sacred. But we fall into Frenchified voodoo sacrifice: the clean blow, sudden slice at a cockerel neck. It's disgusting to gain erotic victory at such a price. The Jains know the flow of time free of harm. The boxer knows its beat: destruction and renewal. Poetic music flows, undulates, hits beats.