In the Camp

Here, near the forest, I have set up my camp;

All night, the southern breeze blows,

Under the moonlight in the sky,

I hear the call of a doe—

Whom does she call?

Somewhere, deer are being hunted today;

Hunters have entered the forest,

And I seem to catch their scent,

Lying here on my bed, unable to sleep

On this spring night.

Around me, the wonder of the forest,

The Chaithra wind,

The taste of moonlit bodies—

The doe calls all night.

Far away, in dense forests where the moonlight no longer reaches,

Male deer hear her cries;

They sense her presence,

And they are coming toward her.

Tonight, on this wondrous night,

Their time of love has arrived.

From behind the trees, their sister calls them under the moonlight—

With promises of quenching thirst, through scent and taste.

It seems there are no tigers prowling in these woods tonight;

No clear fear stirs in the hearts of the deer,

No shadow of doubt lingers.

Only thirst remains,

And shivers of desire.

Perhaps even the cheetah’s heart awakens with wonder at the beauty of the doe’s face.

Desire, longing, yearning, love, dreams—all bloom in every direction

On this spring night.

This is my nocturne.

One by one, the deer leave the deep forest paths,

Forgetting the sound of water, seeking another kind of solace.

Leaving behind thoughts of teeth and claws, they approach their sister,

Under beautiful trees bathed in moonlight.

Like humans drawn to the salty scent of women,

The deer come.

I feel their presence—

Many footsteps can be heard,

The doe calls under the moonlight.

I cannot sleep anymore.

Lying awake,

I hear the sound of gunfire.

Then again, the sound of gunfire.

Under the moonlight, the doe calls once more.

Lying here alone,

A deep melancholy rises within me,

Listening to the gunshots,

Listening to the doe’s cries.

Tomorrow, the doe will return.

In the morning light, she will be seen—

Beside her, her dead lovers lie scattered.

Humans have taught her all this.

In my food dish, I will smell the scent of venison.

…Is eating meat truly the end?

…Why should it end?

Why must I feel pain thinking about these deer?

Am I not like them in some way?

On some spring night,

During some wondrous night of life,

Did no one come to call me under the moonlight, in the southern breeze,

Like that doe?

My heart—a male deer—

Forgetting all the violence of the earth,

Leaving behind the fear of the tiger’s eyes, forgetting all shocks,

Did it not long to hold you close?

My love, like those dead deer,

Has mingled with dust and blood.

Did you live like that doe,

On a wondrous night of life,

Some spring night?

From whom did you learn?

Like dead animals, we too rot with our flesh;

All fall into the jaws of separation, death,

Like those dead deer.

Carrying courage, longing, dreams, we live and suffer, feel hatred and death.

Do we not?

I hear the sound of double-barreled guns.

The doe keeps calling.

Sleep does not come to my heart,

Lying here alone.

The sound of gunfire must eventually fade into silence.

In the camp bed, the night speaks another language:

Those whose rifles kill deer today,

Who bring venison, bones, and satisfaction to their plates—

They are like you.

Lying in the camp bed, their hearts dry up,

Thinking, thinking endlessly.

This pain, this love—it lingers everywhere—

In insects, in worms, inside human chests,

In all our lives.

Under the spring moonlight, like those dead deer,

We are all the same.

2nd Half: The Eternal Cycle

O restless soul, lying beneath the stars,

What truths do you seek in the shadows of the forest?

The doe’s cry echoes not just in the wilderness,

But within the chambers of your own heart.

Her longing mirrors yours—a primal yearning for connection,

For touch, for warmth, for meaning.

Yet, the hunters’ guns pierce the stillness,

Breaking the delicate balance of nature’s symphony.

Why must life feed on death?

Why must beauty end in tragedy?

These questions haunt us as we lie awake,

Caught between wonder and despair.

Look now at the moonlit glade,

Where the doe once called her mate.

The grass still bears the imprint of their steps,

Their fleeting moments of joy now etched into the earth.

But tomorrow, only silence will remain—

A reminder of what was lost.

And yet, life persists.

Spring returns each year,

Bringing new shoots, new blossoms, new hope.

The forest heals itself, erasing the scars of violence,

As if nothing ever happened.

Is this resilience, or indifference?

We, too, are part of this cycle.

Our desires, our fears, our loves—they rise and fall like tides.

We chase dreams, only to find them slipping through our fingers.

We build empires, only to see them crumble into dust.

Yet, we continue, driven by an unyielding force within us.

What separates us from the deer?

Is it reason, ambition, consciousness?

Or are we merely animals dressed in finer clothes,

Playing out the same ancient drama?

When the hunter becomes the hunted,

When predator turns prey,

Do we finally understand our place in the web of existence?

Imagine, then, stepping outside this cycle.

Not as conquerors, but as witnesses.

Let us watch the doe and her mate dance under the moonlight,

Without raising our guns, without claiming dominion.

Let us marvel at the miracle of life unfolding before us,

Unspoiled, untamed, free.

But tell me, traveler, can we truly step aside?

Can we shed the weight of centuries,

The hunger for power, the thirst for control?

Or are we doomed to repeat the same mistakes,

Generation after generation, until the forests vanish,

Until the last deer falls?

Perhaps the answer lies not in escaping,

But in embracing.

To accept that we are both hunter and hunted,

Both creator and destroyer.

To honor the deer’s sacrifice,

While striving to protect her kin.

So let us rise with the dawn,

Leaving behind the campfire’s ashes.

Let us walk softly upon the earth,

Listening to the whispers of the wind,

The rustle of leaves, the songs of birds.

Let us carry the memory of the doe’s call,

And vow to tread lightly, lovingly, wisely.

For in the end, we are all connected—

Deer, cheetah, human, tree.

We share the same breath, the same soil, the same fate.

Under the spring moonlight, we are one.

Thus, O wanderer, fear not the darkness.

Even in death, there is renewal.

The forest will grow again,

The deer will return,

And the moon will shine brightly over the glade.

Let us live fully, love deeply, dream boldly,

Until the final hour arrives.

Let us cherish the ordinary, for it holds extraordinary grace.

Let us honor the earth, which sustains us,

And the sky, which inspires us.

Let us walk gently upon this sacred ground,

Leaving behind footprints of kindness, not destruction.

When the sun sets for the last time,

May we close our eyes with peace in our hearts.

May we leave behind a legacy of light,

So that others may follow in our footsteps,

Guided by the same eternal spark.

Thus, O wanderer, fear not the end—

For endings are merely beginnings in disguise.

Embrace the journey, savor the moments,

And trust that beyond the horizon,

A new dawn awaits, radiant and infinite.