Sonnet 448

What of the tiger whose proud failing light,
That flickering flame of orange now fading fast;
Lost in the dwindling forest’s waning night
Where once he burned as if to ever last?
Few prey now feel those dreadful scimitars,
That feared blood roar beneath a yellow moon,
Or sees that snarling muzzle rife with scars
And knows the terror face of certain doom?
Of embered amber eyes to see no more,
No shadowed paths fresh spoored by hidden claws;
No  peerless stealth to stalk the forests floor,
His rough rasped chuff forever given pause.
Yes he who made him also made the lamb
And here so too, the insolence of man.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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