The Scapegoat, Lifted High

The furred field hides bodies beneath.
This is always the way, a story
told in clotted soil tilled
under.

Bronze, never meant to be planted,
struggles to the surface every year.
It is a reminder to be discarded:
Not fit even for ploughshares.

On the empire’s threshing floor
a king’s king stalks the circle.
Chaff enough to blind, but
this is how to make bread.

For a thousand thousand years
no-one asks the question.
Until: How does bread
break a sword?

The scapegoat lifted high answers.
Under the branches of a great tree
we rewrite, so our children
can recite:

This is always the way, a story
told in clotted soil tilled under.
The blood ever flows,
the body ever breaks,

and this is how we
feed the world.