The Goat and the Sheep
Upon the crossroads' weary stone I stood, Two forms before me, neither bright nor good. A goat, with eyes that burned like brazen fire, A sheep, whose calm concealed no heart’s desire.
"Come," spake the goat, its horns a gleaming crown, "Life’s summit waits, though cliffs may drag thee down. The path is cruel, the edges sharp as knives, Yet glory’s height redeems a thousand lives."
The sheep, more mute, yet in its silence wise, Gazed soft with depths unseen by daring eyes. "Choose me," it murmured, low as twilight’s breath, "My path is quiet, free of toil and death. No heights await, no laurels to attain, But peace is mine—no triumph, yet no pain."
Between them stood I, bound by dire debate, Each course a prison, choice a bitter fate. The goat’s wild gleam bespoke a savage fight, The sheep’s soft gaze—a shadowed, endless night.
"Must all the world be thus—a cruel jest? No road unthorned, no haven ever blessed?" The goat laughed harsh, "To climb is to endure." The sheep replied, "And yet, the plains are sure."
At last, I stepped, though plagued by doubt profound, Toward trails unseen, unlit by stars around. The goat leapt bold, its mockery in my ear, The sheep kept pace, its whispers soft and clear.
"Too frail for ascent," the goat’s scornful cry, "Too bound by fear to reach the open sky." The sheep intoned, "Regret is but thy guide, When paths are chosen where dreams cannot bide."
And so I trod, though neither beast I tamed, Their courses yoked, their destinations maimed. For in their steps, I saw the same bleak shore— No goat nor sheep could grant my spirit more.
