Hunter
THE HUNTER
He is a man inflamed by the sun and crowned with gold,
Like a half-horse and a half- man , he is a terror for the peace-loving souls.
On a horse carrying a loaded gun,
He roams around in the forest in search for fun.
Killing the beauteous peacocks, stags and doves,
He stuffs his heart with blood stains while he proudly swings his robe.
In the burning daylight where the golden pheasants from the tree branches plunge,
He launches his attack till the motions of the blood in the feathers the sun beams stun.
He treasures the dead skulls in whose antlers he hangs his robes,
And proudly counts the deer he has chopped off with swords.
With the lions' skins he decorates his floors,
With the statues of the panting chitas he guards his doors,
Around the mirrors carved with the golden mastiffs and the paws of the ferocious boars,
He looks at himself decorated with badges, emblems, gilt cords and ropes,
With peacocks' feathers he plumes his chapeau, casques and coats,
And boasts of the beauty of the blue green fans that decorate his armours hanging on the walls as signs of his power and post,
He collects the vases and jars with relief of monkeys, snakes and toads,
And drinks from the carafes designed with naked whores.
To chase and kill is his sport,
Because he himself is an animal chased by the ferocious hounds of the darkened force,
Like a restless beast he curvets and leaps,
Like poisonous weeds he chokes and kills all life bringing seeds,
Like a pitiful heart with monstrous macabre needs,
He rejoices in killing the beauteous animals and birds that sing and play in the forests or frolic in joy in sunlit mead.
More the sky, the green forest,
Those beauteous pheasants of time,
With green blue eyes and golden feathers of light,
The human mind's blood thirsts try to cure,
More the peacocks spreading their fans of beauty the human mind try to allure,
More he feels tattered by the mystery of the beauty of life,
And by killing , collecting, and possessing the dead skulls, plucked feathers, peeled skins tries to feel comfortable and sure.
In his restless heart he always feels unsure,
Therefore he tries to win over himself with the ferocity of a will that the power of dominance of evil will ensure.
In horses' hoofs he himself scoops,
In dust-wind streams he himself ruins,
In the blood bathed roads he himself goads,
In whipping swishes he himself bruises,
In the tormenting force,
He himself is his sufferings source.
As he shoots down the doves,
Chases the stags in panthers' strokes,
Plucks off the plumes that the death's strings tune,
In his seeping blood reeks human will's devilish fumes.
He seeks love as something to be fed to the flesh and blood,
And as he gorges it with a beastly passion's mating lust,
He feels abandoned and lonely in his heart.
He moves around the lake with a hope to ravish the maidens who come to take their morning baths.
In the forest he has a hunter's hut,
Where he has his desolate home to fulfil his lust.
All women, who move in this forest, must keep against him an watchful guard.