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