They counted their sheep
when the fiery ball,
which had warmed them all
sunk below the earth.

They gave thanks
for the day,
for no beasts of prey
had come near their flock.

No godless Sons of Men
had stormed from the hill,
to threaten and kill
the flocks they tended.

They bowed low
towards the Garden
where long ago,
God birthed men.

They were the Sons of God.
They deeply concentrated
on Him who had created,
all that they saw.

Suddenly . . . as if obeying
a silent command,
their outstretched hands
quickly descended.

They pulled up their sheepskins
to cover their heads,
laid down on their beds
like sheep led to slaughter.

From a nearby hill
came tinkling laughter . . .
The beautiful daughters of men
forfeiting their own kin
again would shamelessly flaunt
their naked bodies.

Silently they danced
around the woollen puddles
of the Men of God . . .

Was it Oman who peeked first?