Whispers in the Wool
In fields where mist and sunlight meet,
Soft-footed grace with steady beat,
Alpacas roam in quiet bands,
Like whispered wind across the land.
Their eyes hold stories, old and deep,
Of mountain gods and ancient sleep—
A gaze that calms the clamor down,
That smooths the soul like woven gown.
Their coats, a cloud the earth has spun,
Catch every hue of rising sun,
And in their hum—so faint, so low—
Lies peace no storm can overthrow.
They do not rush, they do not strive,
Yet every step declares: "I'm alive."
With every breath, the world grows still—
A lesson wrapped in fleece and will.
So if you tire of noise and race,
Come find the herd, this sacred place.
For in their warmth, both shy and true,
You’ll find the softest part of you.
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