Crimson Hills

The shepherd led his flock to graze.

An army of fate.

An army of innocence.

A ewe ready for slaughter.

A pregnant ewe.

Lambs, black.

Lambs, white.

The old. The young.

Eyes torn.

Tails cut.

They stormed the green hills.

Silent, armored.

Thorns ripped.

Grass shredded.

Branches bent.

Leaves inhaled.

The shepherd slept.

Beneath the mulberry tree.

The sheep charged.

Battle with existence.

Battle with nature.

Battle with themselves.

Then—

Lightning.

The left rib of the sky split.

Each sheep struck by wild light.

Not the birthing ewe.

Not the innocent child.

Not the old.

Not the young.

The shepherd watched.

Apocalypse unfolded.

Books had drawn it.

Now, it drew him.

Knife in hand.

“I wish it were never used…”

But the meat must be pure.

One by one, he cut.

The half-dead.

Blood.

Blood everywhere.

Green earth turned red.

Streams of blood ran down the hills.

The scent of iron thickened the air.

Clouds crimsoned.

The shepherd knew.

Next rain… blood.

Not wolves.

Not human hands.

The wrath of the sky.

Merciless.

Terrifying.

Justice and mercy twisted together.

Yet no one could understand why.

He asked:

“Is the Lord not merciful?

Why my sheep?

Why the innocent?

Why the pure?

Why so easily destroyed?”

Silence answered.

Red earth.

Angry sky.

The shepherd’s eyes searched.

In a world ruled by cruelty,

Where sometimes justice

Is lost

In mist

And blood.