the beekeeper.

ode to black sheep.

black lamb, black lamb
your wool is unique,
yet there are few,
if any,
that envy your onyx tone.

oh my dear black lamb,
to question why is wasteful
for the answer rings clear
even in the minds of the sightless.

small black lamb,
listen carefully.
"wolves!" they cry,
but their white wool blends into the snow.
however, black lamb,
your wool contrasts
and you are the only one alienated
and the only one being attacked.

fret not, black lamb.
it was not your choice to have this noticeable trait.
your genes were not influenced by farmer's words
and you were too small to know.

fragile black lamb,
this is not a hindrance.
your wool is more valuable to glimpse at than the regular
blankets of ivory.
it has seen many days;
taken strong beatings from the sun's rays
soaking it all into its dark colour.
it has seen more terror,
more singeing stares,
but it protects your silky skin from burning.

black lamb,
you are still so youthful
yet even then the herd singles you out.
prance along, lamb o' mine.
your virgin ears do not need to listen to their whispering judgement.

growing black lamb,
the herding dogs will nip at your ankles
and try to force you back in line
but you do not have to crowd yourself in the sheet of white livestock
if you desire otherwise.

lovely black lamb,
one day you will grow old enough
to let the farmer shear off your wool.
you will no longer be an outcast,
but you shall still be unique.

black lamb, o' beautiful black lamb,
you're such a sight to behold.
for you cannot think lowly of yourself
when you have learnt to accept your wool
your luscious,
thick wool
that shall make more money in the end.

black sheep,
when the wolves come for you yet again,
run into the midst of the white herd
and scatter those who had used you as bait.
but run fast, little lamb, for their
bites
are almost as painful as their
barks.