All our fears will be taken one day
Taken either by force or consent
And we won’t know quite what hit us
And so the lonely Shepherd will be the only one
Who will look upwards towards the stars at night
But our duty is not to dream of the heavens
(Wherever they may be)
Or hear the dancing arpeggios of the pianoforte
Ringing in our ears
Our duty rests in our minds
For they are the thickest of walls
And the dreariest of days
Still, the cadence that ends our life
In the final miserable hour of blurry consent
Will be complete, and perfect
Like brilliantly colored rose hips
Frozen solid on the branch
And surrounded by a pure snow canvas
From which the paint-stained man will capture
With a brush in the dead of winter, alone
And eventually the Shepherd will look upward no longer
For the stars have lost their beauty and importance
Or perhaps the Shepherd will go blind