THE PROUD LION
Once lived a lion, ancient and proud, In his mighty mane, a storm was ploughed.
A trace of wrath from days of old,
Of all the stories he’d already told.
Strong and smooth as a beam of light,
His roar — a blade that cut through night.
No equal found in this dusty land, His keep is small, but built to stand.
In the morning sun, he’d rise and sprawl,
With a heavy, haughty, royal paw. He’d tread the earth, the chosen one,
The beastly king, the only son.
He lay in the shade, quite at his ease, Lazy eyes watching the sun in the trees.
Our seasoned king, with a weary head,
Knowing precisely what lay ahead.
All would be fine, but the lion was blue,
Haunted by fires he once knew.
He wanted one thing, deep in his chest,
To put his golden mane to the test.
He wanted his blood to boil once more,
To go beastly wild, to shake the floor.
To unleash the hunger, fierce and sharp,
And have his valor sung on a harp.
To have a hundred queens, a thousand men,
Fall to their knees and fear him then.
To see them trembling, one and all, While he’s the Wizard, standing tall!
But then our lion began to think, Standing there on the very brink:
“Is it worth the cost? To lose my rest?
For just one spark? For just one quest?”
That was the question, the ultimate task,
What would he choose? if you were to ask.
He lay in the shade, with a serious face,
Measuring glory against his grace.
And the proud lion spoke, with a yawn so wide,
Casting all of his doubts aside:
“I think I’ll just lie here a little bit more…
I’ll decide later… what I’m fighting for.”
