The goat

I talked to a goat.
She was alone on the lawn, she was tied up.
Full of grass, wet
from the rain, it blazed.

That same bleat was brotherly
to my pain. And I replied, first
for celia, then because the pain is eternal,
it has a voice and does not vary.
This voice heard
moan in a lonely goat.

In a goat with a Semitic face
felt every other evil being sued,
every other life.