The dead goat, my people
say would never be afraid of
the knife no matter how sharpened
it looks to the eyes.
That is why l have remained mute
because all you have done is
to try to kill me another time
but l have been dead long ago.
My heart stop beating the day
you started pulling those veins
as if you were massaging me
but you took my silence for cowardice
and that is why when you nudged my ribs
there was no response with a giggle.
Why do you bring food to my table
or you think l have the mouth
that can chew what you have laid?
I have ceased eating because
the death that took away your
parents has knocked on my door
it is only that l have remained
breathing and walking about.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
this is a grimly horrific but to me, perfect poem. it does not waste a single brush-stroke. I need to qualify that slightly, at the end there is something of a mystery for me, about the fate of the parents and of the speaker, and precisely how they're intertwined.