“What is for the long face?”
Acacia leaned into the fawn,
Few are her years,
Shrouded in its shadow,
With moist eyes.

“The field is quite large,
And green is the meadow,
But no corner for me there,
To heal my great pains.”

“Plenty your tears are”
Said the stone at her feet,
“Are you hurt? Are you injured?
Are you chased by an evil?”

“No predator trails me,
I have not been harmed on the way,
But my heart is a beating,
And is sympathetically aching.”

“What is the matter, little darling?”
Lamented the birds,
“Why will you usher a bright day,
With a hollow face?”

The cloud vanished, the wind quieted,
And the sun turned within,
Fawn nodded,
Her soft antlers.

“I am plentifully strong,
No harm came to me,
But my soul longs for,
Faraway places.”

My path is virgin fresh,
My steps on it few,
I do not know how I shall walk,
In the distant journey.”

“Shall I turn to the mountain,
Or perhaps to the valley,
And maybe should follow the bird at their flight.”

“Not a doe, not a lion,
Shall disturb me at my walk,
The path shall be lite,
By the sun, the stars.”

“The direction uncertain,
But quite clear is the destination,
I will draw it with a brush,
And shale call it with song.”

“Farwell birds,
Pathways, mighty trees,
You will guide me forward,
Through great days.”

So preached fawn,
And raised her sight,
Her legs tapping the ground,
And her soul in the heavens.