Poem: Scapegoat

I wandered around the garden last night;

I did things, a few out of sight.

Don’t ever let your light burn so bright.

 

I watered plants, sprinkled roses round the floor;

I gave homage to the moss on the rocks;

I danced with the moon on the terrace floor.

 

I was supposed to be guarding the entrance;

But the lights were low and I knew no one to be there;

So I danced around in midnight air, carrying no cares.

 

Wonders enfolded me as I felt freedom, a long time-

It had been that I had an hour and the hour was mine;

I was no servant by choice but this choice had been mine.

 

I was brought up here from a native land;

I was told that I was ugly and washed my hands-

I was stranded in something amiss, but nonetheless, branded.

 

As I watered the flowers, visions of their tall leaves hovered;

Right above my vision I could see the leaves dancing, summer;

That’s when the scream came and I rushed toward door, then cupboard.

 

I did not hate being enslaved, for hate is a strong word;

I cared about the children and mother and warden;

So when I saw the murderous scene by the cupboard I was burdened.

 

I am the scapegoat, for there must be someone to blame;

I had left the entrance and danced in the summer heat and rain;

No alibi could save a slave from taking on the the rope that hanged;

I was the scapegoat, who quenched white pain.

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