If it were the desert, the sun and heat would burn me.
If it were the Arctic, the ice and cold would freeze me.
But no, it a garden where no flowers bloom.
It is a nightscape without the stars, without the moon.
I am the goat strapped with pots and pans,
set loose to roam in no-man’s land.
And those I love, and those I loved
neither curse nor spit on me.
They turn their backs, pretend I’m dead,
and simply let me be.