Sheep
Red paths thread
the mountain's heartland,
arteries of Parnassos;
maggot shapes, a pale
processional with dark
voracious muzzles moving
into morning, eat
the rosemary, the sage;
eat their way back
to the cave, a chain
of termites occupying
ventricles and veins.
Unassuming, herded
into composite identity,
these are the meek,
the blameless, the mere
instruments of livelihood,
who passively surrender flesh
and fleece that shepherd
tribes may flourish;
these are the blessed ones,
the stuff of psalm and parable;
these are the sheep
eating the heart of Greece...
Wolf
A wolf by any other name
would definitely smell of wolf;
what waited for Red Riding Hood
was surely not a rose...