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.

One thought on “The Scapegoat, Lifted High

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *