The wave murmured my name

The silent forest held its breath
As Zadjal slowly walked
And armed with quiver, knife and bow
After his pray he stalked.

The hunter shone with force as does
A young man in his prime,
Proud as an ancient hero from
An old forgotten rhyme.

Of twenty springs he was, though he
Despised both wine and feasts
And in contempt of company
Lived lonely ‘mong the beasts:
Retired inside his woods he led
His life as do the beasts.

Then suddenly the undergrowth
Did rustle from his right
And before his astonished eyes
Revealed a charming sight.

A graceful doe as white as dove
Stepped onwards slowly and meek
She wore a golden tiara and had
Rose daintily colored cheek.

The she-fawn stopped in front of him
And these words uttered she:
“My lad, ahead: for thee they wait
To cross the virgin sea
My lad, the land awaits for you
That lies beyond the sea.”

“My doe” sighed he “who waits for me?
Whence comes the call you bore?”
But no answer came: the fawn had fled.
He moved his steps ashore.