Tell one evening
Of that tall palm tree heavy with fruit
That the silent sun approaches;
And the tree
Reveals the man... [who]
Reveals the sun. So
He remains hidden
In these nights we abandon dark and cold
Into the morning breeze.
The hunter is a man
Made by his tales and shackles
Of bruised blood bare and bound around borders
Building blamelessly and boldly in bottles of beauty! And what remains
Repairs itself with twelve hours of hunting
Carelessly planned in the hunter’s books – somewhat a strategy to kill!
He wipes his brow and loads his weapon.
He becomes addicted to the rawness of his existence; the sun can only set far away. For
Hunters are blind to fear
They feel with their thoughts splashed
Into the dying tiger!
And then we are made to understand how he hides
His reflection – he hunts only at night!
In the hunt he finds the fabric of his nature
Dressed with trees and night; lions and geckos;
Cheetahs and snakes; grasslands and deserts;
Streams and rivers; boundaries and space; bullets
And even more firing of guns! Still
The hunt is for the man.
His tales are the hunt
His pride in his tales – perhaps for his children
And ourselves or
Maybe for different worlds and dreams. And now
We are struggling with him – maybe for his children
To have blood bruised, bare and bound
Hang round his neck. He loads his truck and crawls into the night.
This man is a hunter.