The hills are greener hence
—So there the flock must go—
To seek that which they sense,
For that is all they know.

Their trotters trample past
Whatever that they view,
Until a patch of grass
Appears for them to chew.

Thereby, these lands deplete
Of all but soil and stone,
While all along they bleat
And bleat for sound alone.

I cannot be as such
—So here I must remain—
The flock departed thus,
And I was whole again.



© OMG