I genuinely care for them.

The love I have bleeds out but it is unknown,

and I would never ask someone

to clean up my wounds;

the sheep may be helpless but I am not.

It bleeds out in mystery, in religion;

you cannot see it, but I am not embarrassed by it,

I am not embarrassed by my living.

In the practical sense I dwell on top of a hill,

I sleep outside, play music under the stars, tell stories; some are made up and some are real.

My family believe none of them, and the children in the marketplace believe them all.

I am very lonely, but I am not alone;

I wish no other to join me on the hills

where I write my poetry and devote myself.

I wish no other to join me.

Like I said before, shepherding a flock is as religious as Love; I could die for it.

I would die for them.

I genuinely care for them.