The lamb adores its freedom,
in pastures bright and green.
To frolic along paths,
and feast on juicy grass.
To grow its lustrous fleece,
of youth and dignity.

Innocence leads the lamb to be a prey.
It fondly drinks of a stream,
a fount of banality so stale.
With gradual pace in decay,
it blindly becomes a prey
It’s golden fleece exposed,
to the cyclops
wandering
in a maze.

The lamb is found
The lamb is slain
The lamb is skinned
The lamb is robbed

The golden fleece taken away.

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