it sniffs for the sweet breeze of Florentine
when all around are flies on rotten meat
can vaguely feel being the last of its line
as slowly falls silent sounds of heartbeat.

its fading eyes seek the far off moorland
feet still echo the long runs on limestone
in the deep woods where giant trees stand
a home where never would rest its bones.

in delirious dreams it stalks at the night
hunts for preys chasing opossums rabbits
itself haunted by looming shadowy fright
of fires that brought down all of his mates.

it's so cold out here with the sun ever far
limbs ice frozen to hold the shaking frame
only frail groans and no one to hear
for man the hunter it was another game.