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外链地址
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At the foot of the mountain, golden wheat fields shine,
The shepherd boy stands high on the ridge line.
He cracks his whip, so loud, so wild,
His laughter echoes through the valley wide.
The flock grazes quietly upon the hill,
Wind chimes ring beneath the sunset still.
Suddenly, the cry“The wolf has come!”
We drop our tools and to the ridge we run.
But he laughs, bending double with glee,
Pointing at us, saying, “So easy to deceive.”
The mountain wind stirs the golden grain,
Carrying off his scornful disdain.
The second call comes through the air,
Our steps slow down, but we still rush there.
We see him laughing, more pleased than before,
His mockery cuts even deeper than before.
Why has pure trust, so open, so true,
Turned into a plaything held by you?
Each cruel trick you cast our way
Leaves cracks in the ground where we stay.
The third cry shouts across the land,
We stop our work, tools left in hand.
We lift our eyes toward the village head’s home,
That great tiled house, standing alone.
He stands upon the ridge, so high,
Long accustomed to looking down with pride.
Though the lies are laid bare to every face,
Still he won’t bow, won’t leave his place.
Until that day, a real wolf’s cry
Shook the whole mountain, darkened the sky.
The flock scattered, frightened, torn,
The sunset dyed the peaks blood-worn.
Paper scraps flew on the mountain breeze,
Fragments that no hand could piece.
Trust, like morning mist at dawn,
Dispersed,completely gone.