The Hunt rises, shy at first, she flashes a smile

bright and milky above the star light’s exile

shapes grow solid, fog turns to trees and hills

Isn’t this how the world gets its thrills?

spontaneous existence without a cause,

dazed and wedged between universal flaws

a snatch of the song under the skin of a lion

sparked by Morningstar in love with Orion.

 

Hunting desire stepping over dark river stones

lion’s pride hovering above grass blades and bones

eons have come, each one shallower than before

and I see, each one leaving more misery in store

 

The Hunt travels for eons without her Orion,

what’s her destiny between the fangs of a lion?

The polite answer is sadness and pain

in many dialects of morose and vain


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