A pastoral poem —

I went out into the silence in search
for the sheep this place is famous for.
I looked around the green grass, behind
the towering trees, to find nothing
but the wind howling at me
like a wolf would the moon.
I went down the long jagged road
that stretched from where we slept
to the gate back to the real world.
Cracks were here and there, threatening
to trip anyone who takes a misstep.
I pushed on, up, behind a big acacia tree,
down a path less travelled, covered
in layers and layers of moss, slippery,
dragging me down once or twice.
To my right was untrimmed greenery,
to my left was the outline of homes,
one after another, separated from me
by a thick wall of cement. Through
paved walkways and soil I walked,
through moss and bridges of wood,
watered down by the incessant rain
that has been bothering the silence
I have planned to keep. At the end
of it, a cemetery, where priests of
yesteryear and today rest in tombs
set to their names. In a few steps,
I will be back, and yet I have seen
no sheep.


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