Sonnet: Lambs

Lambs in fields seem to grow faster each year;
Growing to look like their mothers, before
Winter will come and soon we ignore
their youth, replaced by usefulness or fear.

Their lives belong to the highest bidder
who may have travelled from the farthest shore,
for a new stock to toil in daily chore,
purpose from purchase abundantly clear.

Yes, green and yellow fields are well maintained;
grains and fodder collected for winter,
not all animals purchased are sustained.
Instead the slaughter house is the winner.

But comes back Spring and the fields fill again;
this will be the way until farming ends.


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