Green pastures on rolling hills
Turned brown, bland and gray
Grass, hays and wild berries
Lost on a waterless drought day
Death presumably is next
Away the eyes' target
Where well is full of drink
Where near comes spring day
Sheep, goats yes we are
Compassionate and shy
Elegant, artistic or not
We care for all of you and us
Goodbyes are hard to say
But it should go that way
Like death depart we must
When time has come to part...
