Fire On The Hills

The deer were bounding like blown leaves
Under the smoke in front the roaring wave of the brush-fire;
I thought of the smaller lives that were caught.
Beauty is not always lovely; the fire was beautiful, the terror
Of the deer was beautiful; and when I returned
Down the back slopes after the fire had gone by, an eagle
Was perched on the jag of a burnt pine,
Insolent and gorged, cloaked in the folded storms of his shoulders
He had come from far off for the good hunting
With fire for his beater to drive the game; the sky was merciless
Blue, and the hills merciless black,
The sombre-feathered great bird sleepily merciless between them.
I thought, painfully, but the whole mind,
The destruction that brings an eagle from heaven is better than mercy.

- Robinson Jeffers

Os cervos se agitavam como folhas ao vento

Sob a fumaça frente à onda estrondosa da mata em chamas;

Pensei nas pequenas criaturas presas.

A beleza nem sempre é doce; o fogo era belo, o terror

Dos cervos era belo; e quando voltei

Descendo pela encosta de trás depois que o fogo se fora, uma águia

Havia pousado sobre o toco queimado de um pinheiro,

Saciada e insolente, ela havia vindo de longe para a fartura

Amparada pelas dobras revoltas de seus ombros

E tendo o fogo como batedor para conduzir a caça; o céu era impiedosamente

Azul, e as colinas impiedosamente negras,

A grande ave sombreada entre ambos, impiedosamente sonolenta.

Pensei, tomado de dor, mas com todo o meu ser,

A destruição que atrai uma águia dos céus é melhor que a piedade.