I knew the hoofed ones wouldn’t let you down.
A little longer and I might have perished.
They say I’m going to my father’s bosom;
The last time I was there, he bound my ankles.
I still don’t know what made him lift his head
And see the ram. Perhaps one leader calls
Out to another, even in exhaustion.
My father cut me free: we needed rope.
I didn’t understand, for the ram struggled
No more than I had done. But now I see
What mattered was that someone did the binding.

I am so proud you chose the better part,
Where mountains slump, forgetting sacred duty,
Where twigs prod heaven, and unleant-on camels
Bring proof of life from over the horizon,
Where deer know paths forbidden to their cousins
Who turn aside, but only within limits,
Or huddle, and don’t ask where flesh must come from.
Enough of oaths. Enough of rituals.
You’ve always had my blessing, and, believe me,
A birthright’s not what it’s cracked up to be.
Come here, my son. You smell of newborn goats.