Shepherds

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.