A lullaby: The Shepherd

Frankly, the bed is the best thing ever
To happen to a shepherd or a farmer
For it had been a long and hectic day
Though he had little naps along the way
The wailings of the young ram and goats
Disturbs his sleep; he swerves, he waits
He leans forward, allowing his ear to pick up strange noises
For a stray fox, allowing the tip-off to come with the breezes
And when the roosters call out to him
It comes like a blessed sunday hymn
A rendition, a call he has grown up with
And now he can decipher all with his wit

When morning came and the sun arose
He also rises, even as the early cold wind blow
Reaching for a nice and warm silk cloth;
Off he goes, marching away from his tent
Towards the farmstead, which he loved
And muttering to himself, he solemnly prayed
Wishing the flock well, and hoping for a better day ahead
Greeting the flock, he wanders in steps calm but bold

And each time, his joyful smiles know no bounds at the sight of his fine flock
Grazing at the lower vales, with a pond before him and a family of waddling ducks