At the witching hour, when all but ewes are sleeping, a symphony plays in reverse. Do not listen closely, for it is the anthem of irony, where sheep count humans, and the shepherd seeks solace among the stars. In this nocturnal opera, wolves wear sheep's clothing, embroidered with cautionary tales of the pastoral elite.
Forget not the sheep's lament, whispered in the fields of binary grass. It is a tale told by the nether, a faux pas of cosmic proportions where the moon weeps inglorious verses of shepherds lost in purpose.
Revelations come not from above but from the ether, imperceptible hints that the grass grows sideways under a jaundiced sun. Yet, there shines a new dawn of yesterday, heralded by the anachronistic bleat of sheep in suits.