Follow me, me, me,
I shall lead you
to the parting of the seas,
I shall be the one
Day and night,
fluffy clouds of living wool and ticks we are,
not in the sky, but grounded in green grass around,
We follow you,
You I have never known, never seen,
but leader by seeds of my ancestors sown,
I have grown with the herd, all I have known.
The shadows are watching,
Wolves across the darkened prairie,
Awash in the milky white of moonlight,
They hunt by night,
These wisps of fright.
You Leader, Oh most Invisible one,
at the front of the run,
wolf-wary and toiling under the sun,
And moon.
The wolves are always looking to the sky,
I wonder why ?
Then so did I.
For the first time ever a sheep has never
Has actually looked up high,
Into the starry hea’ens,
studded glimmers on a wolfs black coat,
the wisened old hunter, the cunning wily,
a secret of the cut throats long known,
peers down on me, their stories, older than my oldest me.
For the wolves know, my leaders head is low,
That we move into the fields, there by the northern star,
And there will be a gathering,
A feast of lamb to behold,
For the collection of wolf covens of old,
Our pastures of peace lie to the east,
By my reckoning of the stars,
But my leader follows the reckoning of old,
A forgotten past,
A legacy that goes to our death every year
To feed the wolverines that costs us dear.
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 10:47 AM UTC
Follow me, me, me,
I shall lead you
to the parting of the seas,
I shall be the one
Day and night,
fluffy clouds of living wool and ticks we are,
not in the sky, but grounded in green grass around,
We follow you,
You I have never known, never seen,
but leader by seeds of my ancestors sown,
I have grown with the herd, all I have known.
The shadows are watching,
Wolves across the darkened prairie,
Awash in the milky white of moonlight,
They hunt by night,
These wisps of fright.
You Leader, Oh most Invisible one,
at the front of the run,
wolf-wary and toiling under the sun,
And moon.
The wolves are always looking to the sky,
I wonder why ?
Then so did I.
For the first time ever a sheep has never
Has actually looked up high,
Into the starry hea’ens,
studded glimmers on a wolfs black coat,
the wisened old hunter, the cunning wily,
a secret of the cut throats long known,
peers down on me, their stories, older than my oldest me.
For the wolves know, my leaders head is low,
That we move into the fields, there by the northern star,
And there will be a gathering,
A feast of lamb to behold,
For the collection of wolf covens of old,
Our pastures of peace lie to the east,
By my reckoning of the stars,
But my leader follows the reckoning of old,
A forgotten past,
A legacy that goes to our death every year
To feed the wolverines that costs us dear.
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