4. The wounded tiger
I cry for pain, for love and for mercy
handicapped by the cruelty of fate
with no hope for my hellish infirmity
being a decrepit old fool
good only for drinking and doting
in abject imbecility
like a dying lion without teeth.
They say a tiger turns a cannibal
and coward man-eater as he grows old
having nothing left to fall back on
except the dishonour of his misery.
But mind you: as long as he at all remains alive
he still has the right to love
and can use that right to some advantage
since no one can make love like tigers.
Poetry by Christian Lanciai
Read 1396 times
Written on 2006-08-14 at 13:24
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