The Shepherd

 

 

 

When the shepherd plays his flute at dusk, the compassionate sun refuses to set.

 

 

 

When the sun sets, it is well aware that the horizon will be dominated by apocalyptic terror.

 

 

 

The evil that lurks in the realm of darkness and is eagerly awaiting the sheep.

 

 

 

The sheep that continue to wander aimlessly through the woods.

 

 

 

They had no idea what awaits them in the dense forest's convoluted passageways.

 

 

 

The perplexingly built pathways that are always covered by the dense fog of ignorance.

 

 

 

At night, the ferocious wolves are still prowling the earth.

 

 

 

When night descends, demons always emerge from the hell's caves.

 

 

 

They come from the bowels of hell seeking vengeance and revenge.

 

 

 

The malice and hatred that always dwell in the mutant heart of the envious darkness.

 

 

 

The spiteful darkness that always begrudges the incredible hilarity of life's pulse into the intact innocent hearts.

 

 

 

The pure, innocent hearts that grow up beneath the shelter of the shepherd's mighty arms.

 

 

 

The huge arms that have been a real source of agony for the darkness.

 

 

 

Whereas, the melodic flute has been touched by their loving touch.

 

 

 

The loving touch that persuades the flute to perform its most enchanting songs,

 

 

 

which are well known to the sheep's hearts.

 

 

 

The enchanting tunes that can only be heard in the twilight shortly before sun sitting,

 

 

 

when the horizon finally accepts the inevitable encompassing darkness,

 

 

 

and the sheep hurriedly retreat to sanctuary under the mighty arms,

 

 

 

as the panic spreads its unbelievable fear over the pitch-black horizon.