poetry for Yom Kippur

Yehuda Amichai

The real hero of the sacrifice was the ram
who knew nothing of the plot among the others.
He sort of volunteered
to die in Isaac’s place

I want to sing a song in his memory—
of curly wool, of the human eyes,
of the horns, so still in his living head—
and they turned them into trumpets after the kill
to sound their war-cry
to sound their crude joy

I like to see the last scene
as a photo in a glossy fashion magazine
the young man, tan and pampered
in his designer suit,
and the angel by his side in a
long silk receiving gown,
and both of them empty-eyed,
glancing at two empty places.

And behind them, as a colorful background, the ram
caught in a thicket before the kill,
and the thicket his last friend.

The angel went home,
Isaac went home,
and Abraham and God went home,

But the real hero of the sacrifice
is the ram.