Categories > Original > Historical > Ancient Manuscripts. Writing from ages 11-21.
Wolf Weeps
The lamb blinks, stretching out its new legs into the morning. It has seen the day before, but never has the sky been this beautiful, this bright.
The man grips the young tree in his hands. He pulls from his shoulder and a branch snaps. It is thin enough to grip in his first.
The lamb nudges the soft morning.
The man stands in the pasture, and is nothing but a shadow and a sillohuette. Nobody knows if he is angry.
Even wind can be sliced. A sharp ear might have testfied the whistled cry of the banshee, it had been there.
The lamb's brain slaps against the back of its skull, and the man never knew that lambs could howl.
Saplings rising slowly can tear skin, can crack bones. Saplings cannot sin.
The lamb could still taste the freshness of the grass as its tounge draped pink and red across its broken jaw. Its eyes are polished by the eager spring sun and with its own vitality.
The man is human, and for a moment he is still, his head cocked, watching with a wonder and sympathy he would rather not know. He never knew lambs could cry. He knows it has always been better this way and he stands and sucks air through his teeth.
The farmwife watches from inside, with sorrow in her eyes and repentance on her lips. She turns away from the window, clucking softly at her infant son. But she is silently thankful.
The lamb blinks, stretching out its new legs into the morning. It has seen the day before, but never has the sky been this beautiful, this bright.
The man grips the young tree in his hands. He pulls from his shoulder and a branch snaps. It is thin enough to grip in his first.
The lamb nudges the soft morning.
The man stands in the pasture, and is nothing but a shadow and a sillohuette. Nobody knows if he is angry.
Even wind can be sliced. A sharp ear might have testfied the whistled cry of the banshee, it had been there.
The lamb's brain slaps against the back of its skull, and the man never knew that lambs could howl.
Saplings rising slowly can tear skin, can crack bones. Saplings cannot sin.
The lamb could still taste the freshness of the grass as its tounge draped pink and red across its broken jaw. Its eyes are polished by the eager spring sun and with its own vitality.
The man is human, and for a moment he is still, his head cocked, watching with a wonder and sympathy he would rather not know. He never knew lambs could cry. He knows it has always been better this way and he stands and sucks air through his teeth.
The farmwife watches from inside, with sorrow in her eyes and repentance on her lips. She turns away from the window, clucking softly at her infant son. But she is silently thankful.
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