A Gentle Soul
Like an archer who bends his bow
and holds an arrow with a steady hand
his target his only sight
already visualising the slain doe in his hands
Before she falls she already sees the archers
arrow leaving its bow,
a split second both pair of eyes make contact
Both open, one pair to see no more.
The hunter now the hunted
See’s into the recess of her soul
in the deep pool of her eyes
Her head turned towards her fawn
She stood her ground the target she had to be
The fawn now bucked and leapt into the forest
A doe to be a mother to fawns
Her sacrifice a befitting one
Her soul released carried on a gentle
breeze towards the golden sun.
24.1.2021
Copyright © Carol Mitra | Year Posted 2021
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