The Goat Singer

In the echoes of the goat singer’s song,
where Dionysus whispers through the vines,
we find ourselves entwined in ancient rites -
fertility rituals of death and rebirth,
of new life and new wine.

Here, survival is the meaning of everything:
the stars beyond our reach, the earth beneath our feet.
Good versus evil, truth versus lies,
blame and luck, conspiracies and fate.
Destiny waits like a vulture on the tiles,
and bad choices remind us,
Of the arrogance leading us down paths we can’t retrace.

We are always wanting more -
more wine, more power, more love, more life.
But injustice follows us like a shadow,
inescapable, irretrievable, inevitable.
“You paid a price to come this far,”
As if suffering were currency,
as if pain could buy redemption.

Euripides knew it well:
the gods are not just.
They play with mortals like toys,
throwing dice with our fates,
laughing at our despair.
Moral ambiguity reigns supreme,
and protest is futile,
a scream into the void that answers only with silence.
Cynicism grows like weeds in the cracks of our souls,
but still, there is hope -
a flicker, a spark,
a stubborn refusal to give in to the darkness.

Diatribe becomes spectacle,
entertainment for the masses,
as we watch our own downfall unfold
like actors in a play we didn’t write.
Insanity creeps in,
whispering in our ears,
telling us we’re not good enough,
that we’ll never be good enough.
And maybe that’s true.
Maybe we are all doomed to fail,
to fall,
to lose everything.

Desertion, rejection, loss -
the Fall of Man,
the absence of God.
We cry out, but no one answers.
We reach out, but no one takes our hand.
Tragedy guaranteed,
but still, we’re alive.
Apart from the ones who aren’t.
Now there’s the real tragedy -
the ones who didn’t make it,
who didn’t survive the journey,
who didn’t pay the price,
or who paid too much.

Suffering is knowledge,
the bitter fruit of humanity.
We taste it every day,
in every breath,
in every tear.
But even in the darkest moments,
there is light -
a glimmer of something beyond the suffering,
beyond the pain.
A hope that refuses to die,
a faith that clings to the edge of reason,
a belief that maybe, just maybe,
we are more than the sum of our broken hearts.

And so we keep moving,
through the desert,
through the wasteland,
through the ruins of our shattered dreams.
Because even though the road is long— or there is no road and we have to find our own way - we are still here.
We are still alive.
And that, in itself, is enough.