Wild are her songs, wild are her imaginations
For in the midst of hungry bleating sheep
She could make songs that lift the soul
******
Taste of dew on the morning grass excites the herd
So that they call out in ecstatic joy to the shepherd
And she, noting the excitement, played hee wooden guitar
Caressing the instrument, singing with the herd her song
Of maah’s, and bleats occasioned with minutes of silence
The grass is soft, so are the shepherds palms upon the guitar
The quiet riverside is calm, the herd listen in wonder
So when she stroke the chords, the sheep call out in ecstasy
And with a soft voice she made them cosy,
Her songs talk of the golden fields of grass in Heaven
It sang of sweet pasture hidden behind the mountains
Where no man, shepherd and flock ever set foot on
And how the fields glitter in the warm heat of the sun
In the shepherds songs, she restates her love for the flock
Believing someday, the herd will see the fields of joy
