I am already quite scarce. For years
I have appeared only here and there
at the edges of the jungle. My graceless body,
well camouflaged among the reeds, clings
to the damp shadow around it.
Had I been civilized,
I would never have been able to hold out.
I am tired. Only the great fires
still drive me from hiding place to hiding place.

And what now? My fame is only in the rumours
that from time to time
and even from hour to hour
I’m shrinking.
But it is certain that at this very moment
someone is tracking me. Cautiously
I prick all my ears and wait. The steps
already rustle the dead leaves. Very close. Here.
Is this it?

There is no time to explain.