of childhood freedom
stretches wrinkled paws over cliff-sides;
his pink nose gently
waking everything
long forgotten.
The troubled fawn
he once courted
now long deserted, he jumps
into the arms of restless birds;
taking him swiftly
back to his rocky enclave.
The poor lonesome lion;
how difficult it must be
for him to overlook
the snowy peaks
in the arms of a golden swan,
the one I gave him to
because no one likes flying alone.
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