Friday, October 19, 2012

The Herd



            I, in my infinite hypocrisy,
Despised from my mountain cove
The bleating sheep roving, filling the knoll,
Caught up in their ritual dereism.

            I, from my high hovel,
Descried that white pool of heads, bobbing hinds,
Moving as water does
In pipes beneath the populous.

            I, through the clouds around my cave,
Cried to the hopeless herd,
Grided my stones together, against the earth.

Neither I nor my voice
Resonates
With the symphony of the sheep
Pasturing there in the grassy field.



by: Raymond Alistair


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