[By Kidane]
ላምስ’ያ ምስሓርዲአን ማይ ይሰትያ!
O cow! holy cow,
The Cows of the River,
Why they call them cows, I wonder;
As they drift through the river’s thunder.
From one bank to the other;
Honestly, they glide;
Silent in their journey, nowhere to hide;
The knife is sharp; slaughter is a friend.
Their necks like branches, reaching high;
Their backs and horns remain bowed to the sky.
No turning, no questioning where they roam;
They follow the current, far from home.
Drinking from rivers that whisper and hum;
As they near the edge, they know what’s to come;
But cows are holy dame!!
Each drop they sip, a pact they keep;
For the flow that calls them to the deep.
They are not lost—though they do not know;
The river’s pull is all they know.
The slaughter awaits, silent as sin;
For those who drink but never begin.
They are both the journey and the end;
Rivers their guide, slaughter a friend.
Necks bend to the earth, husbandry is the grace;
But never a step beyond their place.
“Moo” “moo” is all what they can say;
Holy cows communicate that way;
Nights and day.
This is how the slaughters fool them;
Holy cow! Holy cow! …praising by name!