The Flying Deer

Along a narrow tunnel track,
the foxes gather, circling back.
A lone gazelle, with startled breath,
runs toward the arms of death.
 
Jungle law in savage grace,
civil order masks its face.
Fangs and talons, dripping red,
celebrate the feast they’re fed.
 
Then flashes blaze—the camera’s spark,
a “Jurassic Park” remark.
The painter traps with iron frame,
the paper prints the hunter’s game.
The poet scribbles lust’s design,
in columns bold of daily line.
 
Interviewed, the victim speaks,
a woman smiling, pale and weak.
She whispers tales of rape and lies,
the TV swallows all it buys.
The crowd, with hunger in their gut,
devours the tale of blood and rut.
 
Our princess, once, in whispers bare,
confessed her love on midnight air.
A jackal’s voice through telephone,
left her weeping, quite alone.
Next, the camera caught her kiss,
a seaside moment, fleeting bliss.
Her husband’s view the channels sought,
while gossip feasted, sold and bought.
 
Another lover rang the bell,
revealed the secret, dared to tell.
The world’s great press, with thundered voice,
made her a symbol, not a choice.
 
Yet still the gazelle runs apart,
fleeing the kingdom’s cruel heart.
Better to race, to leap, to die,
than live as prey beneath their eye.
 
The gazelle kept running, sharp and fast,
while men and harlots jeered, harassed.
Until one day, in sudden flight,
it struck a pillar, soared to height.
Freedom torn from flesh’s chain—
but love? Or only lust remained?