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January 31, 2012

The Lion

See an old unhappy Lion,

Moving unto oblivion,

Sick in soul and body both,

Moving now as slow as sloth;    


See him sulk, the fallen head,

Banished from the pride he led,

The pride he led with all his pride,

That followed him in every stride;


Leonine, by his fall he came,

When a youth put his pride to shame,

Pawing at the king that led,

Tame less still, in such bloodshed.


The pride had left him, then and there,

Left him there with none to care,

Left him there without a lick,

Left him for the birds to pick.


Thus he stands, the fallen king,

He snuffs his pride away from him,

In fading sunlight, dull and dim,

He stands like a bird with a broken wing.


Feel for him, the fallen chief,

Dwindling with his shame and grief,

Half the lion he was before,

A bag of bones and nothing more.


See him standing, sick and still,

The hero of a thousand kill,

Dreaming of the days of good,

Never to return, gone for good;


Dreaming of his days of growth,

Dreaming of his days in youth,

Dreaming of his mother strong,

Who never saw a chase go wrong;


Dreaming of the days he spent

With his mother, strong and lean,

When sky was blue and grass was green,

He looked with baby wonderment.


Dreaming of his very first steps,

That started on his trembling legs,

When gaping at the bird that flies,

Waiting for the one that dies;


How he lagged behind the pride,

And mother searched the forest wide,

North and south and west and east,

For left, he will be someone's feast;


How she charged to him forward,

Roaring at the loathing bird,

Stationed always in the skies,

Waiting for the one that dies;


How he became a lion grown,

And left his pride to win his own;

When mother left the cub she bore,

And he too, looked to her no more.


How he roamed and how he roared,

Roared his beauty through the hill;

Strong in will, he made his kill,

When high as sky, his spirits soared.


When he fought and won his pride,

His rivals had nowhere to hide;

When all could see the king anew,

Matched in skill and will by few;


How he ruled his forest bower,

Making law with steady paw,

In day, in night, in snow, in shower,

When he came to sultan power.


No one that to challenge took,

Could stand the furnace of his look;

Not a lion in this land,

Came for a second reprimand.



Not a leopard breached his law,

Breached his law and fled his paw,

Not a leopard in his skin,

Came for a second discipline;


No one stayed to law aloof,

And risked a second time reproof;

Not a buck or bull or boar,

Came again and asked for more.


Not a lioness had her will

To make a kill and claim it still;

How he roared and claimed his shares,

As if to say, "Come out who dares";


Not a man that stood his paw,

His wife and children once more saw;

Not a hunter this land knows,

Had come back in his blood and bones;


All behold a lion, a king,

Who stopped for nothing, not a thing;

And all knew surely here was one,

That ruled his jungle, fearing none.


Pity him, the sad outcast,

Looking at the pride he lost;

Pity him, for he must wake,

And know that he can't claim his state;


He snuffs the pride he fought and won,

He snuffs them in the horizon;

The ruler who was all but slain,

Now turns around and lives again;


He knows his life is ending now,

He knows he has no one to bow,

He knows the risen sun has set,

And turns around with blood still wet.


Dreaming of his very first steps,

That started on his trembling legs,

He muses at the bird that flies,

Waiting for the one that dies.



The dreaming king now turns away,

From his golden yesterday,

He turns towards the bird that flies,

Waiting for the King's demise.


His life he made an open book,

For all those who to living took;

A lesson, that to all applies:

"When position falters, possession flies"


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