The Silence of the Lambs

The Silence of the Lambs

In the murmour of the evening sky,
the meadow lies in quiet estate,
golden‑flecked clouds drift on, pale, shy,
while lambs lie still, their breaths close‑taught.
No chatter, no bell, no frightened cry—
a hush that seems to hold the earth’s own beat.

Yet beneath that placid, tranquil cloak,
there waits a rustle of unseen steps,
the echo of a past that broke,
the silent echo of a choir that missteps.
The wind, it carries whispers in the reeds,
a language only the wind can read.

In this stillness the ghosts of fields gone by
are measured in the glint of dew,
and every breath of the farm’s soft sigh,
offers shapes in a world of blue.
Lambs are innocent, a soft, bright light—
yet silence can be a blade that bites.

So let the lambs endure their quiet hold,
and may the silence be a shelter bold,
not an endless hush that crushes,
but a calm contagious,
a promise whispered in the pastoral—
the peace that soothes the dread of glooms untold.