[by Kidane]
ሃዳኒት’ያ ከልቢስ ጽልኢ ትርፋ፤
ጨጕሪ ኣብ አፋ።
What would the hunting dog gain?
Feather in mouth bruise on the skin!
Otherwise, hazing wind by the ears;
Restless eyes keen with fire;
Beneath the stars, bound by desire.
The world is a field wide and untamed;
Every scent a story, every trail unnamed.
The birds raising high, wings breaking free,
Yet the dog’s eyes relentless will never see.
In every step, a weight is borne,
The thrill of pursuit, the ache of scorn.
What does it grasp at the end of the chase?
A fleeting victory, lost in time’s embrace.
But the hunt is not for the flesh alone;
It’s the hunger for meaning, the call of the unknown.
The feathers may scatter, the bird may flee,
But the dog, still hungry, seeks endlessly.
What does the hunting dog gain;
Feathers in mouth, bruise and pain?
Not for himself does he chase the scent;
But for the one who calls, whose heart is bent.
His feet on the earth, his eyes in the sky;
The master’s command, the reason why
Through bramble and thorn, across the stream;
The dog does not hunt for the prize or the dream.
He runs for a bond, unseen yet clear;
For the hand that guides, for the voice he holds dear.
Each step a promise, each leap a prayer;
To return what was lost, to show he cares.
What does he seek, when the bird takes flight?
It’s not for glory, nor for the fight.
It’s the trust in the chase, the loyalty strong;
A song that’s sung, though it may be long.
Feathers he carries bruises he bears;
Yet all that he wants is the warmth that shares.
The hunt never ends, but the reward is true,
A moment of rest, when the task is through.
The Silent Labor,
What does the hunting dog gain?
Feathers in mouth bruise on the skin.
Not for himself does he race the breeze;
But for the hand that holds his leash.
In fields of toil, in streets and homes;
Many labor, though no one knows.
They give their sweat, their strength, their time;
For reasons hidden, for love sublime.
Not for glory, not for gold;
But for a promise, quietly bold.
The mother who wakes while the world still asleep;
The farmer who sows while the harvests weep.
Like the dog, which runs without a cry;
Some work in silence, by and by.
Their worth unmeasured, their toil unsung;
Yet without them, what would be left undone!
The teachers nurture, the builders build;
The ones who clean when the city’s filled.
With dust and noise, with hurry and pace,
They are the heart that keeps time in place.
For there are no feathers, no prizes to claim;
Only the knowledge they served without name.
Like the dog, which runs not for himself;
Some labor for others, for love, for wealth.
Of spirit, of hope, of something more true,
Not what they take, but what they give through.