Wounded little doe, trembling with fear,
Tell me what it’s like to know your end is near,
Death is approaching and stretching its arm,
Accursed be forever who dared cause you harm.
Farewell vast fields, farewell forest deep,
Alas! for us it has come time to weep.
No more of jumping, of roaming wide plains,
Don’t fight little doe, don’t, for it is vain.
What can birds tell you as they fly by?
What is there to say, other than goodbye?
by Martin Krč
Year 2, Issue 1