Thus Won The Hare Poem by Harun Al Nasif

I am a humble hare. Nameless and unknown.
In the green bushes on the slope of the hill
a shallow nest rimmed with grass is my home.
I have grown up in the rugged terrains,
the summits, the ups and downs, the pits,
and the ridges of the hills and mountains.

Innately, agility courses through me.
While I was in my mother's uterine sactuary,
the fighting seed of speed was sown in my blood,
the golden mantra of protection in danger as well.
Even before giving birth to me,
my mother had to jump at a high speed
to overcome the ensuing danger!

Who doesn't know that speed is the sole arm
to an animal as harmless as a hare,
in this forest fraught with beasts?
I felt the glory and magic of speed,
even as I was growing in my mother's womb,
I enjoyed the dynamic and dazzling speed
with thrilling splendor.
Being born as a hare and feeling a pride
is a precious legacy bestowed upon my birth.
One should not call it arrogance, should they?

My pride rests in being a nimble hare.
Despite my small size, I am a vibrant and swift spirit.

I have nothing else to boast about:
I don't have doe's slit eyes, the antelope's majestic antlers,
giraffe's towering neck, tiger's or zebra's spectacular stripes,
lion's royal mane, peacock's flamboyant plumage,
cuckoo's melodious voice,
or butterfly's brilliant wings-- nothing.
I don't have a bushy tail like that of a fox.
Not even a hint of twinkling of a nocturnal glow-worm
resides in the void pouch of my pride!
Only two long ears distinctly raised up,
always alert apprehending danger in the offing!
Besides, I wield a speed that incites envy,
but serves me as a shield of self-defense.
However, this innate speed
ignites intense jealousy among other animals.
Since childhood,
my mother very often would caution me
to be aware of it.

My mom used to squat in the shade of vines
in the scorching heat of summer
and relate to me numerous stories:
stories of life, stories of youth,
stories of dignity and greatness, of lowliness and meanness,
stories of jealousy, intrigue, violence, and vehemence.
Like a picture painted on a canvas in vivid colors
they would unfold flashing before my eyes.
I used to listen to her fervently, in awe.
She would share fables alongside many a tales,
yet would not forget to caution me against the allure of captivating words.
She would say: there's a story behind every story.
Sometimes, the tale behind the blind is the real one!
So, never fall prey to the deceiit of layered narratives: her wisdom echoed.

How could I forget it?
How can I believe the story of defeat
of an agile hare to a tortoise of a murky marsh?
Evermore, putting the poor hare to sleep!
What a cruel irony even to imagine!
But for that, the lofty ambition to beat the hare
would have been aching with a yearning
to ascend the ladder of dreams till doomsday.

Did the tortoise truly want to bet with the sprinter,
who delineates an impassable path for his rival
in the blink of an eye?
Or was it the jealous and intriguing clique
that propelled him towards the wager?
Was it the flawless ploy of those
who reveled in unabashed glee,
imposing an unbearable burden of shame
on the audacity of speed that day?

Let it be, but why did the hare tarnish
the reputation of the entire hare breed?
Why did he bear the blame of marring
the honor and dignity of the whole tribe forever
on his own shoulders?

Or is it a pleasant myth, all make-believe?
Is it the crafty deal with smart weaving of deceitful tales?
In the market of collective design, they say:
numerous scheming charlatans roaming with snares.

Every now and then I wonder:
Was he in a perilous dilemma of horrible trouble?
If he didn't agree, they would say: what a hare!
He doesn't agree to race with a tortoise in fear of losing!
And if he wins?
The distress of disgrace would plunge deeper!
Everyone would say: look, what a scandal!
Being a scion of a hare,
it has come to parade its bravery to conquer a sluggish tortoise!
Losing is losing, winning is also losing in this bet!
Having agreed to the race, he has already lost it.
Just fate!
As one says: caught between Scylla and Charybdis.

Had the pernicious perils of falling into a trap
or the dishonor of apparent victory against the tortoise
finally got him enshrouded in a gloomy sleep under the tree?
Then, awakened by a terrifying nightmare
he made a brisk scamper, in a flash.
Or having known, the defeat is inevitable,
had he only longed for reaching the destination,
just the destination?
Does reaching the destination signify the real victory?
Or to set the poor tortoise to win
he just pretended slumber with eyes closed?
Perhaps, he thought, a hare was always a hare.
Let the tortoise seize the day, today!

And thus, the legendary hare won the race,
setting the born-to-lose tortoise to claim victory!