Stripes Of The Prisoner
Among the dark shadows of the jungle,
Out of the sun, in the heat of the day,
I sit near the cooling, swirling stream,
And rest my aging bones, as is my way.
Advancing years have not been kind to me:
My old, unsteady limbs creak and groan.
There are no younger ones to comfort me.
I spend my time here ever more alone.
My inscrutable stare is fading fast,
Like my beauty, and my ev’ry dark stripe.
Soon I will fade into the background,
And there will be no more of my type.
You were afraid of me once long ago,
But now I’m the
one that’s afraid.
Death waits around the corner for me:
A price that’s soon to be paid.
My looks are my downfall,
My fierce beauty inspires your greed.
You just have to have me:
I can supply one of your needs.
My fur is my curse, my tail a collector’s item,
My nose, my ears and my paws,
Everyone wants a piece of my action
My eyes, my tongue, even a slice of my claws.
I’m worth more dead than alive;
My very rarity is my value,
But there are so few of us left now,
That I have to be protected from you.
These last few forests must be my home,
A “Reserve” for we creatures called game,
But the fear and the respect have faded:
I’m a prisoner in all but my name.
Your children will not see me or my like,
Our image a strange forgotten sight.
The flame of our existence,
No longer burns in the forests of night.
So look upon me whilst you can.
There’ll be no more roaring jungle calls.
From this point there’ll be but a silence,
Except the sound of a single tear-drop, as it falls.
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