Photo Roy Mos on unsplash The crimson thread between his horns, He stands at the gate and waits, his brother’s blood Staining the air sweet. He wonders how a small goat like him Can bear the congregate sins of twelve tribes, when it takes a large strong bullock to atone for the priest. And why it is he who is doomed to walk into the desert, his head as heavy As his heart, and what it is he must do To procure forgiveness for that people. And how he will find and turn Azazel So they might both come back into the fold And be treasured and loved again. How much wilderness must he endure, How much cold and how much darkness, Erring among bramble and stone. And how much being alone.
Just what it says: a little midrash, a filling in of some of the lacunae Torah leaves in the lives of its characters. The stories lay no claim to being right, but they do explore what is possible. Texts don't sit still long enough to have fixed meanings; too often we assume that Torah is done and finished. It is never finished.