I am
the one who sits, counts, watches.
I am
the one that sits against the
hazel brown tree
under the shade of the youthful leaves
as They graze on the field
I am
the one
that walks in front of Them
leading Them to the flow
of cascading, sparkling diamonds
each one with its own small rainbow
I am
the one who, for all intents and purposes
looks sound asleep
but on the first broken twig
draws his staff in its direction
I am
the one
who sees the beast of black and claw
but does not back down
for fear of harm
to the ones behind me
I am
the one who merely points and swings his staff
with mere hopes of scaring
I am
the one who takes that leap of faith
I am
the one who is seconds away from open jaws
and unsheathed claws
I am not
the one who made
this stick of oak
into a golden, glittering hilt
attached to a long silver blade
I am not
the one who
somehow
persuaded my arm to move against its will
to deal an unnatural wound
I am not
the one who's actions were
smooth
quick
I am not
the one who dealt 3 quick strokes
that were enough
I am
the one
who woke up minutes later
staff in hand
no one around
bear on the ground
I am
the one who lead my sheep
back to their pen
I am
the one indebted
I am not
the one who found a way out
and it seems
I am not
the only shepherd out today
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem