The silence of the lambs is unbearable.
They seem confused; more rather, mystified.
One would think that they're relishing on this gruesome anarchism,
This horrible chaos that is unveiling its dark intrigue.
Their fathers lost their battles with the wolves,
And having fallen down, their blood is being shed
And their blood is lustily being drunk by the thirsty jackals.
And now! Ah! Lament!
Their mommas
Are being sent on the way to the butcher's shop.
Iron cast shackles fasten their feet.
An absurd connotation per se! For sheep,
They do not run in the face of devastation.
Their bleating laments pierce the skies
They bewail and mourn for their fallen leaders-comrades
And humbly, oh so humbly
Do they lower their heads
And accept defeat.
There they go, shyly, following one another,
With tears brimming in their eyes,
Angst tightening into their panged hearts.
And during all this time, their lambs,
They just watch mesmerized
All this cacophony of trials and errors.
Too afraid to say, or do anything
Or too ignorant to understand the gravity of the matter.
Poor sheep-they cry.
Not for their ultimate demise,
As the butcher, smiling sharpens his hatchet.
No, the poor sheep do not cry for their cursed fate.
They weep for the silence of their lambs,
Who just watch, eyes wide-open in stupidity.
Maybe they are too immature to act?
Or too shocked from this disastrous havoc?
Or are they too indifferent to take action
Against this merciless reality?
Oh, the silence of the lambs is so unbearable.
Oh, the silence of the lambs is so unbearable.
I can tell you that! !