Nothing is the same while I spin this yarn
keep it on the spindle, turning with my feet
pumping wooden peddles hewn from some poor tree
while some poor sheep feels the cold of man
shearing its fleece. and next the plump lamb
ripped from the field is anointed with mint
hearty laughter , full bellied, rounded meal
while the mother bleats and bleats in her shorn
fleece, fleeced of her lamb, fleeced of her hope