Nature roars with a gentler will—
Not like men, who plunder and ****.
Each moment, a leaf lets go;
Luck kneels low to spring's bright glow.
Dormant breeze sweeps through the land,
As buried riches seize the crown.
No stranger I to this raw lore:
From dust I rose—I thirst no more.
At nature’s feast, I stake my reign—
Its quiet gold: my rightful mane.
In The Rightful Mane, the speaker emerges not as a conqueror, but as a creature reborn from the elemental silence of nature. Through vivid imagery and mythic tone, the poem contrasts human violence with nature's quiet sovereignty. What rises from the dust is not just a being, but a birthright—claimed not by force, but by resonance with the earth’s own rhythm. This is a meditation on power earned through harmony, not *******.
