*Courtesy of Google Image
Through the land of sleeping kingdom
A shepherd called his lovely sheeps.
He used his horn to gather them,where they roamed in the abundant freedom.
They ran to him, jumping in a joyful leaps.
They rounded next to him in circle and watched.
He patted each on its head, counting and leading in a pen.
Walking on the land with sunburn scorch,
They hide in their welcomed den.
After the night, when the fierce storm had passed.
They were led to their pasture zone full of grass.
He left his sheep, short and fast.
But when he was back on pasture with the horn of brass.
He blew his new horn in the air, sweet and loud melody spread on the pasture.
Yet no sheep lifted its head to welcome the shepherd’s call.
Discourage by new horn disaster,
He blew the old and broken horn, standing tall.
The sheep ran to him again.
He had grin on his wild face.
He knew the truth was plain:
Only to the familiar call they give a chase.