by Brett Rutherford
I am my own shepherd. I do not want.
The neighbor whose pasture I slept in last night
does not mind: the fence is not for people.
Nuts fall from the trees, and apples, too.
Between two warring towns I freely walk.
In my simple ways I cannot distinguish
a friend from a foe. Three towers ring out
in clashing chorales of discordant bells.
Crowds waving books bound in the skins of lambs,
shout curses at one another. They look at maps,
draw angry lines to define a border,
and melt down their ploughshares to make a gun,
that will lift a whole village and drop it
again, consuming all in smithereens of rage.
Among such lunatics, it is not wise
to linger. Now, back to the hills for me!
Yet Nature has its hazards if you look.
Still waters breed mosquitoes, and wolves watch
to see who tarries there too long, and, lame,
would never outrun them to the forest brake.
My modest hut beneath a hanging rock
is serenaded by a pebbled creek,
and the bats, my silent brethren, swoop down
to tell the secrets of the coming dawn.
There is a valley where no one goes,
except, they do say, the dead and the mad.
Free-thinkers go there. Sometimes, among them,
we think we are the only ones who truly live.
We shake our heads at the cannons’ thunder;
and over the ridge, the exultant bugle
preludes the mutual cries of sudden death.
Some take a life, some give a life, for what?
We hold only the weapon of reason,
yet they would rather die than take it up.
Tempting it is to stay here always.
With brotherhood and peace
my cup runs over.
