In the greenest meadow,
With the clearest stream,
And the bluest sky,
There lived a lion.
His mane golden and his teeth white.
He had not yet tasted the flesh of deer.
On the other side of the meadow,
There lived a doe.
Her fur was a silken brown.
She knew not of lions.
The lion saw the doe, and was in awe.
She was clean, she was beautiful.
He wanted a taste.
He spoke to her in low, calming tones.
Speaking to her lovely lies.
He said he craved a taste of her flesh.
She fell for the lion.
The doe wanted to please the lion.
She offered him a taste.
So he tasted.
But the lion couldn't control his hunger.
He tore at her flesh.
Wounding the deer.
The green grass turned red.
The sky grew dark.
When he had enough, he got up.
He looked at her.
He growled, he hissed, he walked away.
He wanted no blame for his own doing.
The doe nursed her wounds.
And the water turned red.
She grew strong again.
Washed clean by the stream.
The grass green again.
The sky blue.
But her scars remained.
The silken fur turned ragged.
The doe had a friend.
One with much shinier fur.
One more beautiful than she had been.
One that was unable to stand on her own.
Her friend was weak.
Weary from running.
She also did not know of lions.
The doe told her of the lion.
Showed her the scars.
Her friend saw, and hated the lion.
Or so she said.
The sky grew dark again.
The lion came back.
His mane with deep red in it.
His teeth bloodstained.
The doe was wary.
The doe knew he was flesh-hungry.
Her scars ached.
And she knew.
Her friend was in danger.