Little fox little fox
what are you dreaming?
Cascadings of blood and
downpourings of feathers?
Of red coats and trumpets,
of fleet hounds and horsemen?
Or screamingscreetch couplings
in cold winter meadows?
Of mother’s milk warmth
and the tussles with brothers,
of hiding and seeking
and pouncing on flowers?

Or do you dream nothing
but just soak the warmth up
in your quiet corner
of woodland in springtime,
curled like a cushion,
contented from hunting
your brush like a boa
caressing your nose?

And you look so trusting
curled, sleeping and dreaming.
The hunter is resting
at peace in his nature.
Beneath the ash tree
whose branches are spreading
a flush of green misting
as seasons are turning.

If I could sleep soundly
as you in your country,
no fear for the future
no guilt from the past.
Then I could be free as
the fox in the forest,
go calling my true mate,
be happy at last!