A (Scape) Goat’s Self Elegy
I can tell
Its festive time
For all butchers alike;
Rejoice with tender delight
I can see
We are better off
Than chickens;
They are trapped in cagey prisons
I can hear
The maulana
clamouring to be wise;
Ibrahim, his son, sacrifice
I can smell
Our own blood
Flesh
Piss, on the grounds
Men are fools
Look at them
Carrying these pack of leaves, all around
Feeding us to our brims, they say
“Goats are fools
Look at them
Filling themselves up to their brims
Not knowing they are soon to die”
Beggars, lined up
At every door, knocking
For crumbs of meat
They only get my bones
So whose heaven?
Is it, that you will go to
When my throat slits
And larynx cries out
And whose sacrifice?
Is it, your or mine
Your silence is mute
But my flesh stinks loud
Advertisements