The sun shimmers down on the barren soil
The gale so still not a sprig can stir
Rolling hills and white cotton clouds
A shepherd boy lies in the meadow
How can a boy, so young, be accountable for so many lambs?
With a rod in one hand and a stem of straw on the other?
What makes a boy so adolescent so entitled to such a chore?
When the evening falls, who to walk the boy home?
When rain descends, who to shield him from the drops of heaven\'s tears?
Though insignificant he amounts in indulgence and knowledge
Who better to tend to the lambs than the one that knows them the finest?