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

I have witnessed such dishonesty
so much human weakness and foul
action that degrades and defeats me
so, as a human, I am ashamed.

It matters little how the culprit feels nothing–
I am the witness and thus accomplice
who never looks in their eyes.
I despise and can never forgive them,

let alone myself, for having lived with
those who roil and covet like swine.
I have never approved, only ignored, and if
I said something, it was always too late.

Yes, in the end, it’s I, not they, who need never be born.
Neither near them, nor against them. They are
the permanent darkness, and I the passing flicker.
I shall camouflage myself somewhere and stay mute.

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