Across the desert plains, the arid steppe,
Through mudden marchen-marsh he drags his tread;
Labored the breath that will not yet accept
The ease of rest, nor hunger’s voice well-fed.
No hound at heel; no banished word is said,
He pays no coin of spite to buy the night;
He bows to hearth, unpushed, and claims no right—
The young lion closes one preying eye.
The coronet still sits—untouched—yet kept;
His kin still whole; no bond is snapped or bled;
He parts as one whose fate is self-inept
To wait on grace by accident instead.
Ambition’s yoke sits light upon his head;
He walks alone, yet walks by chosen rite,
Prideful-prideless in his inward true sight—
The young lion closes one preying eye.
For now, these dreams are sand, not harvest swept:
No rumor of his deeds has yet been spread;
No scribe has inked his name; no record kept,
Only the long intention borne ahead.
Neurotic cub distrusts the softened bed,
By patience sharpened finer than his bite;
He spies the lamb, yet stills the older fight—
The young lion closes one preying eye.
Licentious youth licks frost from beard and jaw,
His singed mane thin from weather, want, and wait;
The gut growls loud, the ancient impulse claws,
But mind and heart refuse the simpler gate.
Against his lesser self he calibrates,
Choosing the long ascent, not stolen bite—
He’d rather lose than win by borrowed light—
The young lion closes one preying eye.
Prince without land, yet rich in chosen law,
He keeps one hard-eyed witness; it asks, “Why?”
A will that pays in sleep, yet asks no awe—
The young lion closes one praying eye.
Jan 3
Jan 3, 2026 at 4:00 AM UTC
Across the desert plains, the arid steppe,
Through mudden marchen-marsh he drags his tread;
Labored the breath that will not yet accept
The ease of rest, nor hunger’s voice well-fed.
No hound at heel; no banished word is said,
He pays no coin of spite to buy the night;
He bows to hearth, unpushed, and claims no right—
The young lion closes one preying eye.
The coronet still sits—untouched—yet kept;
His kin still whole; no bond is snapped or bled;
He parts as one whose fate is self-inept
To wait on grace by accident instead.
Ambition’s yoke sits light upon his head;
He walks alone, yet walks by chosen rite,
Prideful-prideless in his inward true sight—
The young lion closes one preying eye.
For now, these dreams are sand, not harvest swept:
No rumor of his deeds has yet been spread;
No scribe has inked his name; no record kept,
Only the long intention borne ahead.
Neurotic cub distrusts the softened bed,
By patience sharpened finer than his bite;
He spies the lamb, yet stills the older fight—
The young lion closes one preying eye.
Licentious youth licks frost from beard and jaw,
His singed mane thin from weather, want, and wait;
The gut growls loud, the ancient impulse claws,
But mind and heart refuse the simpler gate.
Against his lesser self he calibrates,
Choosing the long ascent, not stolen bite—
He’d rather lose than win by borrowed light—
The young lion closes one preying eye.
Prince without land, yet rich in chosen law,
He keeps one hard-eyed witness; it asks, “Why?”
A will that pays in sleep, yet asks no awe—
The young lion closes one praying eye.
