Every dawn, the sky bled gold, and the king on the hill grew angry and bold. He shook his heavy mane at the rising light, screaming at morning to give back the night. He claimed the high peak as his earthen throne, ruling the grass and the shattered stone. To him, the sunrise was a challenger's face, an uninvited stranger in his sacred space. So he bared his teeth and let loose a roar, wagging a useless, prideful war. For years, the great sun simply climbed up the sky, ignoring the beast with a bright, blinding eye. It warmed the cool plains and it guided the herds, paying no mind to the predator’s words. But pride, like a weed, only deepens and grows, and the lion’s loud fury became a grand pose. He thought that the sun rose because he allowed it, that his majestic roar was the anchor that bound it. Then came the noon of the ultimate day, when the sun stopped ignoring and started to play. No wind stirred the acacia, no shadow could hide, as the heavens flung open their furnace inside. The sun gathered focus and aimed at the hill, striking the king till his muscles went still. It beat on his skull with a terrible weight, pressing him down with a heavenly hate. It wasn't just heat from a midsummer sky, but the burning of engines that never will die. The sun channeled power, immense and severe, the fury of every bright star in the sphere. A thousand galaxies pulsed in the ray, turning the golden king into clay. A deep, heavy fever crept into his bones, replacing his roars with exhausted, low moans. His blood ran like lava, his vision went blurred, as the universe spoke without using a word. The crown on his head felt like molten, hot lead, and he collapsed on the dirt where he used to tread. The lion looked up through the shimmering haze, blinded and broken by the infinite blaze. He saw that his strength was a flickering spark, a brief, fragile moment before the long dark. The sun was the master of life and of dread, ruling the cosmos while beating him dead. With a final, low whimper, the beast bowed his head, creeping away to a dark, rocky bed. The fever soon broke as the daylight withdrew, leaving the king with a mind that was new. He still walks the hill when the shadows are gone, but he bows to the boss at the break of dawn.
The Immortal Wize
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The Lion and the Sun
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life
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OTHER POEMS WRITTEN BY The Immortal Wize
The Lion and the SunEvery dawn, the sky bled gold, and the king on the hill grew angry and bold. He shook his heavy mane at the rising light, screaming at morning to give back the night. He claimed the high peak as his earthen throne, ruling the grass and the shattered stone. To him, the sunrise was a challenger's face, an uninvited stranger in his sacred space. So he bared his teeth and let loose a roar, wagging a useless, prideful war. For years, the great sun simply climbed up the sky, ignoring the beast with a bright, blinding eye. It warmed the cool plains and it guided the herds, paying no mind to the predator’s words. But pride, like a weed, only deepens and grows, and the lion’s loud fury became a grand pose. He thought that the sun rose because he allowed it, that his majestic roar was the anchor that bound it. Then came the noon of the ultimate day, when the sun stopped ignoring and started to play. No wind stirred the acacia, no shadow could hide, as the heavens flung open their fur...  |
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