I am a sheep. But a happy sheep.

As started by silmaril and continued by (among other people) mamadeb:

"When you see this, post a bit of poetry in your own journal."

For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.