Fuzzy shepherd
in stained clothes
made of lambs hide
brightly flashing eyes
in a sun burnt face.
Hooves or feet?
Callous, rough hands
pulling at sheep’s udders.

There is no escape
but having undergone
his hard treatment
they take to fleeing
to the black shadows
of solitary olden beeches
in a wind burnt landscape
soft hills of golden grass

Warm pastoral
breeze from the east
soft pipes in the trees
wandering white clouds
extending slow time
icon of a since-ever
that certainly will help
endure our reality.