The Scapegoat

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The Scapegoat

The Scapegoat
The Nightingale Is Among Us Again
The End as Renaissance
A Reminder
What I Witness
A Source For Origins Or Roots
How The Eagle Sees It
An Island In Land

He has returned to the garden to boycott our poverty
ignore the embargo, and sleep through the war.

No one knows why. Perhaps he loves the trees
we had meant to cut, though never did, or the company

of crows and cackling magpies, the doves and cats,
or simply children, the pool sprung from the cracked drain?

Perhaps he loves us, “lords of the manor” … not likely, not since
a neighbor, who never slept “for all the goddamned singing,”

tried to run him off. Now he’s silent. He’s found
a mate, returned to an invisible nest.

What’s happened to us? The songbird’s
clueless. No concern.

Nor his concern ours … for over a year we never
noticed his absence (as our absence will go unnoticed).

Now we remember because of song
disturbing our sleep, this constant unease.

May such song spill among this modest poem
and next year find us, here, at home

with the new lords of the manor, absent,
a new song pouring forth, as if nothing

could happen, or would. Our neighbors, falling
toward sleep, burrowing under, futures only oblivion.

AuthorBogomil Gjuzel
2018-08-21T17:24:06+00:00 March 1st, 1998|Categories: Blesok no. 01, Poetry|0 Comments