Lion
The Lion
In crescent light, the savannah stretches wide,
a kingdom where the wind turns every blade of grass
into a hymn sung in the silence of a primornal dawn.
The lion – king of pride, of valley and of old myth –
rests beneath a lone acacia, his mane a secret of gold
that gathers the sun in a braided tapestry
of heat and hour, of strength and of sage‑backed civilisation.
His roar, a thunderclap that rides the wind itself,
echoes through the lowlands and through the stir‑of‑afield birds;
it is a voice that could ask questions of the rift‑sky,
or simply remind a wandering soul that even the savannah
confines itself within a pulse that knows only time.
And yet, within that pulse, the lion steps soft on the sand,
anest them his strides to a mere question:
"Do we rule or are we but subjects of a creature
who chooses not merely to hunt but to love the way the wind blows?"
In the dark of night, the little one curls close,
maintaining that this is no mere build‑ of predation.
It is a gathering of hearts, hungry for lore,
hobbyistic in the elder ways of hunters and dreamers,
in ring and in club, in a shout that starts in the stadium
and reverberates back to the whisper of bushes in bush.
So the lion remains a tapestry of yore and yet is living,
an emblem of grace that still, in every direction,
mirrors out the present: a bond that feels the call
of a future—it is still as bold as it is old,
a creature of soul and of colour, of reality and of myth.
