A goat stood by the roadside
Bleating with no credible sympathy tears
In the eyes of men
He bleated and he cried
No one asked whose goat it was
He looked at the blossoming fodder
Tantalizing him, still his bowels were void
He took his woes in his bleating
To the stream
He stood here throat parched
And his feet deep inside the water
He cried for his countrymen
He cried for himself
And he cried for tomorrow.
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