Those shepherds are my muse—
Whose prayers
Slumbered in silence
For a long time.
Whose identity remained lost
In the crowd of selfish and
Self-praising scholars.
Whose intellect is dim and tongue
Is harsh. Whose life is a battle
Fierce and long—
Who never got to sing
A loyal love-song.
Who were never accompanied
By a fortunate woman.
Who carried insults on their backs—
Whose chests still bear ancient scars.
Whose only wealth
Is their milky-white lambs,
From whom they\'ve learned
Purity and restraint.
Who go on moving forward,
Surrounded by dark clouds,
Surrounded by storms,
With the sweet songs of birds,
Praying to the straight
And tall pine trees
Carrying sweet blood
In their bitter wounds.