There is a small goat

On the field somewhere

It seems he is alone

It seems a first love

It seems nine years have passed

and so the misery begins

Cries of the goat can be heard as laughters of the goat

The goat eats half cynically

With certain boredom of a bourgeois

With certain distance of an artist

With tears of a being on earth

Someone approaches far from the meadows

To release the goat

Or to educate

The wind blows strong

Almost too strong for a small goat

Therefore the goat stays firmly, balancing

With the force of gravity, climbing

With the vigour of capability

With all its commands to each muscle

With a song of influence

At the back of the mountains

The poet sings of the goat

As if to break an engagement

Much pressure’s felt

On the three fingers that touch the pen

On the stomach with worries and doubts

Searching for something that can hold of her

Searching to exist as an extreme necessity

For the meadow, or

To somebody

Or, for the goat that stumbles along with drops of rain

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