I was speaking to a goat.
She was alone in the field, tied up.
Sated with gra**, wet
with rain, she was bleating.
That selfsame bleat was brother
to my own pain. And I replied, at first
in jest, then because pain is eternal,
a constant voice.
This voice sounded
in the groan of a lonely goat.
In a goat with a Semitic face,
a sound to represent all other woes,
all other life.