The Hart

The Hart

The purple morning gilds the skies,
The sun awakes from sleep,
The grassy meadows open their eyes,
Their stillness, yet, they keep.

Silence broken, birds awake,
Twittering at the morn,
A hart comes to drink from the lake,
Then sounds the hunter’s horn.

The hart, he quickly turns around,
He leaps to get away,
He tries to get far from the sound,
But the horn follows always.

The hart, he stops, the noise had ceased,
Then sounds the release of a bow,
He drops his head,
The arrow zings by,
Into a tree it bores.

He runs away, the hunter has lost,
The hunter has lost his prey,
In silence, now, he gives a sigh,
He’ll come again, someday.

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