Beside a flooded river
some shepherds are bleating back
for their sheep are out of control.

It’s sleeting like shots aimed
and they have just only started
making a shed.

They sound like they’re mad
at their master who
is probably absent

and the madness climbs
cold mountains
here, in front of my eyes.

Poor lambs look like cotton fiber
blown up in the air. Their mothers call
for forgiveness but the shepherds –

bleating shepherds.