It used to be so;
that almost everywhere you went in Africa
you could see lions.
You'd see them hiding in tall grass,
sleeping in the sun,
drinking from a waterhole,
the cubs frolicking and fighting
in preparation for the day
they would be adults in the pride.
You could see a regal male, the king of beasts,
with his large mane and long black-tipped tail,
standing on the savanna.
You could see the powerful females,
tending to the young,
doing the hunting and providing food
for all in the pride.
Perhaps you'd see the whole pride
feasting on a recent kill.
A grisly sight, yes,
but a necessary one.
Then one day,
you looked around.
"Where are the lions?" you asked.
"I used to see them everywhere."
Then you looked into a camp
and saw a man with seven dead lions on his truck.
In a city, in a small dank shoppe,
you saw paws, heads, and hides
for sale to tourists from other countries.
You ran back out onto the savanna and cried
"Lion, where have you gone?"
There came to you no answer
but the memory of a roar,
echoing off the plains.
Or perhaps it was just the wind...
