Omer Tarin

  There stands the bunched-up herd And badly infected, more than one-third I am told, and I must make the dread decision Now, the quiet shepherds waiting, not a sound to be heard.   It’s a hard one, this, whichever way you look at it I daresay, watching one sheep stagger in a fit Head wagging, perplexed and more than a little afraid Like every sick animal, sitting and rising, looking for another place to sit.   The silence prevails. None dare say Anything at my own silent, stricken delay; But that’s all—a delay, for I understand I have no choice Anymore—this bleak, windswept, failing day.   There’s no promise or hope As I signal the man with the knotted rope To begin his slaughter. And he paces out slowly Into the meadow, shambling brokenly down the slope.   The first, far ‘Bang’ scares the other sheep Into a bleating, plunging, scrambling sweep Towards the other end where more men wait, and I, I stand watching that gory, growing h...