The wolf

The prince of the night runs in the forest

Overseeing the tranquility of the kingdom

Greeting the moon like an old friend

Reassured, he makes his way back home

When a loud sound detonates in the air

A sharp, blinding pain pierces his flank

Making him whimper in agony

Disoriented, he tries to locate the danger

Dragging himself in the dark

His heart pounding, his wound bleeding profusely

He needs to get away from the monster

The hunter’s steps are menacing and heavy

In the moonlight, the rifle glints dangerously

Blinding the wolf as tears escape his eyes

He remains silent behind the tall trees

Knowing his end is coming

As the dawn on the horizon is nearing

He doesn't know how long he lays there

His breathing more and more laborious

When he feels a cold, metallic weight on his muzzle

Opening his tired, unfocused eyes

A block hole greets his sight

He can distinguish the big human behind

Holding his weapon like a proud master

A sly smirk on his lips, violent triumph in his stare

His finger pulls the trigger

And the wolf welcomes the soothing void

***I didn’t include the original poem at first because I had written it in French, but then, I realized that some of you might enjoy the French version more. As I tried to translate it word for word and not lose the meaning, I became aware of how hard is the job of translators is for they not only have to keep intact the beauty of the language itself but also convey the same message.

Here’s the French version of the poem:

Il est le prince de la nuit

Le loup d’ébène courant sous la pluie

On le croit tueur

Car c’est un chasseur

Il guette toujours

Son regard scrutant les alentours

Vous avez installé des pièges tranchants

Le loup s’est fait prisonnier

La gueule en acier l’a happé

Il s’est tant débattu

Que vous en êtes devenus émus

Il a rongé sa patte

Puis s’est traîné en hâte

Il n’a pu aller bien loin

Et s’est effondré dans un coin

Cet animal si majestueux

Hurlant d’un air courageux

Appelle à l’aide à s’en fendre l’âme

Et laisse perler une unique larme

Vous êtes fascinés

Par tant de volonté à vouloir se libérer

Son ardeur est impitoyable

Son esprit indomptable

Dans son cœur, la rage

Gronde telle une tempête sauvage

Son être est estomaqué

Devant tant de cruauté

Lentement, le feu de la raison

Se consume et devient un tison

La flamme de la vie lutte vaillamment

Avant de s’éteindre complètement

***

Thank you for reading!

Bahora Saitova