The Hawk
My greeting, hawk above fir-trees high,
you proudest of birds in the forest!
Defiant you stare straight up at the sky,
your flight is as wild as it’s lawless.
You cleave the breeze with a wanton zest,
with green-tinted eye ever scouting;
you sink your beak in your quarry’s breast,
its right to survive always flouting.
A brigand you are before God and man,
your body blood-red from the slaughter:
the duck’s waggling rump with contempt you scan,
reflected down there in the water.
No love of your bloody claw have I,
but your flight-smoothed breast in all weathers;
your savage gaze from your home on high
and the glint of the sun on your feathers.
(Set to music by Carl Nielsen)
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