The land is lean from lack of rain,
My goats are hungry as hell.
I feed them rough hay and buckets of grain,
Striving vainly to husband them well.
Their instinct's to browse sweet leaves as they grow;
The stuff I give them's too dry.
What they desperately need is the succulent flow
Reaching from earth toward the sky.
They suffer that want, but never complain
Or reproach me my careless neglect.
Living the present, with no sense of blame,
They simply endure and accept.
I admire their indifference,
the lightness they show,
Whilst I am weighed down with regret.
Those goats are encouraging me to let go,
To graze on the now and forget.
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