The Deer Live in Vain
by Shahinur Islam
This world doesn’t hold always good time for deer;
the deer live in vain for greed of green grass
that gives their body healthy nourishment
and makes a heady aroma of it
and exerts a pull on the deadly smell
of the hostile tiger like a magnet.
They aren’t tiger-charmers but easy prey.
They’ve no inhuman weapons like humans;
they’ve no fatty, slow-working, secret tools
that can avenge their enemies like beef,
or no fish bones like chital that can sting
and pinch the throat of man after its death.
Yet the deer live in vain thinking their life
as invaluable as anything.
They just get trapped in mantis deception
of leaves for all time— and in the cover
of deception— Death draws in tiny tints
the dotted spots all over their body.
Yet their desire to live is undying
and eternal— however frivolous
their life is in the world,
or poisonous in a twinkling.
The deer make the scenes of the world pretty
and raise the spirits in all its forests;
everyone lives on the borrowed fragrance
of their burnt hearts. Yet the deer for themselves
live in vain. For the alluring grasses
they sell well their own life gratis to death.
So the deer live in vain;
the deer still have a dance in vain
to the steps, tempos and crescendos of green.