The Bullock

I don't know if he is still needed Or not But he is coming back, Indifferent to the Tandoori Roti of the sinking sun, With only moisture from the air and a bundle of grass Upon his back. He comes Like a colossal boulder rolling downhill. He is walking And he remembers only the track Whisking him like his own tail, onward. There is a smell And he does not know its source But it is there, And somewhere a drum is sounding, And trees are being felled within the forest, And the lambs are treading upon his hooves. A sudden snort And his earns are erect. This is the smell of new-mown hay, he tells himself, And with fresh hope. Surrenders his body To the warmth and slumber of the entire community. Between the crackling flames And the tales nodding with sleep, He alone is an animal that thinks Of hay all day long And of God all through the long night The next day dawns, new And cool and fresh Suddenly he remembers the pasturelands. He lifts his tail and having gone twenty-one times round the dwelling place Finds himself face to face with the plough He is extremely pleased. For the first time he feels Glorious horns crowning his forehead, And with redoubled vigour He places his neck under the yoke. And now, among the marshes, Only his horns glimmer, Until the day Wanes.