Upon two hills where banners flew and pastures met the sky,
Two farmers ruled their separate lands, each proud, each justified.
One called his flock “enlightened souls,” too wise for guard or chain,
He freed the dogs, pulled down the posts, and loosed them to the plain.
“No need for walls,” he cried aloud, “nor watchmen stern of face,
For trust and kindness guard us best, let mercy take their place.”
So wolves came down by silent moon, unseen from outer lands,
And met no bark, nor gate, nor gun, just faith in foolish hands.
The other farmer, mocked by all, kept order in his keep,
His fences firm, his hounds well-trained, his word the law for sheep.
He fed them fair, he led them true, though some would call him hard,
He mended walls when storms arose, and set a constant guard.
“For peace,” he said, “is not a dream, but forged by watchful might,
And mercy stands when justice wakes to keep her throne aright.”
His fields grew rich, his lambs were sound, his dogs in honour stood,
While rumour named his prudent care as tyranny’s false good.
Then came the wolves in greater packs, their eyes like coals of hate,
They found the open valleys soft, the gates disarmed of fate.
The farmer of the fallen walls still preached of brotherhood,
He bade his sheep to love their foes and call the slaughter good.
He blamed the other, far away, whose dogs he deemed unkind,
And swore that strength and discipline were marks of weaker mind.
Yet blood ran deep among his flocks, and terror ruled the field,
While freedom turned to famine’s cry, and hearts refused to yield.
The guarded farm looked down in grief, and sent its call once more,
“We’ll lend our hounds, we’ll mend your walls, and drive the beasts to shore.”
But pride had grown a poison there, too bitter to forgive,
And envy whispered, “Better die than owe that man to live.”
So still the wolves tore through the night, and all the valley knew,
That dreams of peace, when stripped of spine, will never see it true.
The shepherd’s voice grew hoarse with rage, his people lost in din,
And all his fields lay barren now, where blind ideals begin.
Then one by one, the wiser sheep slipped down through mud and rain,
They crossed the stream to guarded fields and safety once again.
The farmer of the faithful dogs received them without scorn,
And gave them food and stead to stand, though broken, cold, forlorn.
He gazed upon the far hill’s waste where folly’s banners waved,
And mourned the price of pride and lies, the trust that might have saved.
For nations fall as farms decay when watchmen are despised,
And freedom dies where fools proclaim their weakness civilised.
(By John Shenton)