Aye, he stayed in the vast wild lands alone,
With only the bleating of sheep as his song
And smell of grass and dung as his perfumes
The singing of birds play him sweet hymns
And his friends and companions are mother Natures abundance
Under the trees, he sits to play a song for his wild acquiantance
The sheep listen to his strings, as he sang out loud and patiently waits
The brave ones lay on his foot and look upon the peace on his face
He is unperturbed by the roaring wild beasts
Nor by the treacherous wind that sift about
He smiles to each passing bee or stray wasp
Leaning on a tree, he retires to a little nap
Even in his songs he tells of the far quiet green lands at the bay
And dreamful sheep bleat and hope to get there some day
He laughs heartily, plays some more tunes
Singing of the fine Sycamore and the Prunes
The evening approached the vales shyly
And so the dark night came on swiftly
The shepherd looks up to the setting sun
And then calls out to the sheep all around
It was time to go home for rest
Along the way, he carried a young lamb upon his breast
The night came so fast and so was the walk around the hilly bend
Yet the cold nights has no mercy on them who took refuge in the open
Finally, the sheeps bleat a good night to their weary master
As he locks the barns entrance and prepares to retire
On his bed of wool, he tosses and turns hopefully
The day was long and he after the walk was weary
The night was full of common activities
The cats outside, the swooshing trees and the crickets
But a night of such, he must play on his long strings
And sing songs of lands where there are sweet green lands
With the sheep in the other barn, listening joyfully to the song
Hoping and longing to see this land the shepherd sang of
Oke Iroegbu's Musings 