The lambs are slaughtered and we leave-
By the spouting of their blood!
By the omens in their entrails!
By the riddles in their bones!
- We leave
This is no land for the tattered ones
We no longer belong to these hills
Our ploughs are blunted against furrows of stone;
The milk of our cattle has curdled in their udders;
Vultures feed on our wretched carcasses
As we leave behind our painted dawns and
Nights pregnant with desire;
We leave behind a heavy curse-
O land of tyrants!
O land of fools!
May your rivers shrivel into dust;
May the plague infest your fields;
This is no land or refuge for us,
The sons and daughters of the ages,
We who have been given mastery of these worlds
And those worlds beyond these worlds;
We have folded our tents under the scrutiny of our foes
And tomorrow, tomorrow we shall find ourselves, anew.
© Omer Tarin 2016, by special arrangement