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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