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Beyond
Land and Time |
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In Camp (Camp-є) Translated by Here on the edge of
the forest I pitched camp. All night long in
pleasant southern breezes By the moon’s light I listen to the
call of a doe in heat. To whom is she
calling? Somewhere the deer
are hunted tonight. Hunters entered the
forest today. I too seem to catch
their scent, As I lie here upon
my bed Not drowsy at all In this spring
night. An April breeze, Like the taste of
moonlight. A doe in heat calls
all night long. Somewhere deep in the
forest—beyond the reach of moonbeams— All stags hear her
sounds. They sense her
sounds. They sense her
presence, Come toward her. Now, in this night
of wonder Their time for love
arrives. That sister of their
hearts In moonlight calls
them from forest cover— To quench their
thirst—to smell—to savor! As if this night’s
forest were free of tigers! Not even the shadow
of uncertainty. There is only
thirst, Excitement. Perhaps wonder wakes in the cheetah’s breast
as well at the beauty of that doe’s face. Lust-longing-love-desire-dreams
burst forth In this springtide
night. Here is my
nocturne. One by one deer
come from the wooded deep, Leaving
behind all water’s sounds in search of another assurance. Forgetting tooth
and claw, they approach their sister there Beneath the sundari, bathed
in moonlight. As man draws near his salty woman, lured by
scent, so
come those deer. I sense them— The sound of their
many hooves. In moonlight calls
that doe in heat. I can no longer
sleep. As I lie here I hear gunshots. Again I hear the
sounding guns. The doe in heat
calls once more in the light of the moon. As I lie fallen
here alone A weariness wells
within my heart While I listen to
the sound of guns And hear that doe’s
call. Tomorrow she will
return. In the morning, by
daylight, she can be seen. Nearby lie her dead
lovers. Men have taught her
all this. I shall smell
venison upon my dinner dish. . . . Has not the
eating of flesh ceased? . . . But why
should it? Why must I be pained
to think of these deer— Am I not like them? On some spring
night On one of life’s
wondrous nights Did not someone come into the moonlight,
call me too, in the pleasant southern breezes Like that doe in
heat? My heart, a stag, Forgetting the
violence of this world, All caution cast to
the winds—all fear of the cheetah’s eyes— Had not it yearned
to possess you? When, like those
dead deer, the love in my heart Lay caked with
blood and dust, Did not you, like
this doe, live on Through life’s
wondrous night One spring night? You too had learned
from someone! And we lie here,
our flesh like that of dead animals. All
come, then fall in the face of separation—separation and death— Like those slain
deer. By
living-loving-longing for love, we are hurt, we hate and die, Do we not? I hear the report
of a double-barreled gun. That doe in heat
calls on. No sleep comes to
this heart of mine As I lie here,
alone. Yet one must
silently forget the thunder of those guns. Night speaks of
other things upon camp beds. They by whose
barrels deer perished tonight, Who relished flesh
and bone of deer upon their dinner plates, They too are like
you. Their hearts too
wither there in sleeping bags. Thinking—just
thinking. This pain, this
love resides everywhere, In the locust, the
worm, in the breast of man, In the lives of us
all, Like those slain
deer in spring’s moonlight Are we all?
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