A pack of grey wolves swept over the hill top, killing the older sheep as they stood almost immobile, trying desperately to convince the other sheep that they were the best for the slaughterhouse.
The young lambs ran away bleating in terror, managing to go straight through the barbed wire fences that a moment ago had seemed so impenetrable. They ran until they were far away in the open country side.
One lamb bleated what were those terrible things that had killed the older sheep.
One said they were wolves.
Another said they were our masters.
Another asked were they not the same thing?
A fourth pumped with adrenalin, said that they should keep moving.
They fled into the hills and joined up with other wild sheep. Their lives were precarious, but meaningful. They understood, with time that to live, one had to earn that reward and that was the reward-life.
The wolves ate the whole day, filling their bellies until they were satisfied.
What do you think they meant when they said blue and red sheep?
They were not blue or red.
I think it was a clan thing.
Another said, did you taste any difference between the two kinds?
No they tasted the same to me.
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