Swift as breath,
yet condemned to chase its own beginning —
the Spiral Antelope leaps through air
like a ribbon of muscle and memory unspooling.
Each bound writes a luminous curve,
each landing erases its shadow.
Born to run, cursed to circle,
it carries in its chest a pulse that knows no end —
a song of pursuit without arrival.
“To move without progress is to perfect the shape of longing.”
Scholars of the Plains say its track marks
describe the symbol of infinity —
a loop of devotion to motion itself.
The Maharajagar 