Oana Ileana Noorani

The Black Sheep and the Dog

I wandered through many crowded flocks, and finally, when the gong struck the exact hour, I understood that I am nothing more than the same sheep, hungry and thirsty for pure truth, one that finds itself among a multitude and instantly turns the page of ignorance. Through my sudden awakenings, I gazed upon vast hills, while the meadow where I stood became the coveted subject of many interests. I remained there, caught in a delirium of immediate reality, surrounded by a thorny fence, in the shadow of a forbidden tree that appeared like a mirage, bearing various ripe fruits. I felt the dusk long before, and you were my essential light. Oh, my adored one, I wanted to uproot the tree back then, but I didn’t know how, not when the Earth was so fragile and the meadow in ruins, while the tree drew its sap from a star and a crescent moon, in a place where the thorns of the fence observed a conjunction and a fierce circumstance.

Beloved, the clairvoyant foretold early on that I would become much more than a sheep in the late hour, but to be honest, without your love, I remain so dull, so devoid of color. I wonder, will you run through other meadows full of ardor? Will you replace the complexity of our bond with the simplicity of a mundane emotional life? I humbly ask myself from the very beginning, now as you transform into the quintessence of fulfillment—you who are both my muse in an astral reverie filled with love, and a boundless phenomenon I feel in contemplation. Beloved, did you know that sometimes salvation comes from a nocturnal moment, not necessarily a diurnal one? For if night were to turn into day, I have been with you, and I hope I will be again, connected in our unions.

As I said, on the meadow where I stood, I found myself among a herd of white and black sheep calling for their shepherd, though their own power could surpass the rudimentary state reflected in the obscurity of the fence. For within, they were their own guide and leader. Most played a game of cards and dismissed history, failing to notice the danger or the tree. Some slept where truth was also their slumber, while others longed to feel the scent of paradise, hoping still to find their fortune, though the surrounding darkness equaled absurdity. Beloved, have you ever seen a ship calling for its captain, who, if the ship perishes, will choose sacrifice itself? Ask any writer: If their being ceases to exist, what will become of their creation? Will it not become one with eternity? You guessed it—this is the law: absoluteness.

My beautiful one, I saw you—you were paradoxically a dog, racing to dig a trench, a passage toward the grandeur of a different, impressive reality. You wanted to pull me out of the ranks, out of the crowd. I ran toward the only escape and suddenly looked back, seeing a flock. And deep within, I remembered that I am the black sheep who lives to transform a tree through the destined word, while the flock will hold both the power and an acorn in their hands. You looked at me and declared: “Well, if for you, infinity means this flock, I will remain the loyal dog guarding the transformation and transcendence of a tree beside a shepherd and a herd, where the eternal acorn has appeared in an ovation—as the highest form of regard, meant for a black sheep.”