Author's note:I own nothing, and would humbly like to offer this in tribute to the Great Lion.
Upon the shores he wanders,
Always alone…
No pride has he, no single place,
Though all Narnia's his throne.
His eyes of golden slashing light,
So old, and warm, and wise…
…And lost when he walks the beach at night, remembers how he dieds...
His paw prints in the sand that fade before his foot has gone,
His rippling fur of amber spun much softer than a fawn,
His mane is full and tempest tossed, it waves within the breeze,
A sight to lift the dying heart, or toss darkness to its knees.
Upon the shores he wanders,
We watch him from here,
For when his eyes look distant it is rare that we draw near.
It seems his shoulders are so broad, to bear a heavy weight,
And that the effort of the battle is what keeps his back so strait,
How proudly do his whiskers curve?
How humble is his brow,
How terrible his shining jaws,
How elegant his growl.
His roar is like the earth below where deep within it sings.
His power is to kill or save, to break or lift up kings.
And yet, when he is all alone, and moonlight is all that is at his side,
I see him shiver slightly, for what could he have to hide?
His soul aches for a little hand, to let him know she's there.
A little hand to walk beside him, a little hands sweet care.
I long to place my hand upon him, to feel his silky fur,
I long to see his great head lift, I long to hear his purr…
I fear for him, if fear I can, my mind can be mislaid…
But I do wonder watching him, must all beauty fade?
…But ah, the moonlight kisses his cheeks,
The stars they shine so bright,
And his light will grow with the glowing sun,
As the Lion conquers the night.