Just past dawn, the sun stands
with its heavy red head
in a black stanchion of trees,
waiting for someone to come
with his bucket
for the foamy white light,
and then a long day in the pasture.
I too spend my days grazing,
feasting on every green moment
till darkness calls,
and with the others
I walk away into the night,
swinging the little tin bell
of my name.
Just past dawn, the sun standswith its heavy red headin a black stanchion of trees,waiting for someone to comewith his bucketfor the foamy white light,and then a long day in the pasture.I too spend my days grazing,feasting on every green momenttill darkness calls,and with the othersI walk away into the night,swinging the little tin bellof my name.
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