GOLDEN LOST SOULS We the lions of the past, Today`s ghosts, Roamed endless plain and wide mountain range Before man became man, before Man stood upright, peering with curious eyes - Fuelled by a mind that in time destroyed much. Man Today, it seems destined, will destroy that Very same one with curious eyes and mind Who rose upright from the plains. Us, ghosts today, the lions of the past Lived throughout much of this ancient continent, Africa And beyond. From harsh mountain range north at the night caressed by winds From where blue meets blue, The forests` dark depths And eastern plains dotted with our abundant prey, Decorating the land like a moving mosaic of flowers. We, the children of the lions of older times On these same eastern plains Were born within grassy gulleys And within bushy banks of streams. Secret nursery places chosen with care By our mothers. Life in the beginning for us children of the lions Was an unclear place of shapes. Some dark, some light as we peered With barely opened eyes. Our golden mother`s tongue, again and again Would clean our spotted backs And we, The children of the lions, would Clamber about on unsteady legs. Our golden mother would protect us as best she could - But some of us died, Killed by leopards, hyaena or by fierce other golden fathers, Having chased away our own. We would grow, taste meat for the first time And tumble, tumble, tumble Upon grassy endless plains. Our childhood is long, a learning time, Learning from our golden mothers, aunts and benign golden Fathers. Always togetherness in our golden lion families, Making us lions. We would, as children of lions, learn to hunt with the family. In time be the one who seized those Of stripes, those with horns, those we must kill To in turn enable us to live. Our urge to kill is not fuelled by a malevolance, or hate But by a spirit to live, a spirit of life. Feast, then days of fast, The pendulum constantly alternating With the rhythm of the seasons and migrations. We, with seasons passing, we the children of the lion Feel the change within us, no longer children, Then copulate for days - then stop. One day we would enter the grassy gulley Or that bushy bank by the stream In which we too had been born, To give birth to children of the lion of our own. We would do as our golden mother did, Caring, protecting, Raising beloved children of the lion under An African sun and staring moon. With these children grown, with now Our own mothers, old golden mothers, Again we would give birth, to care, to teach and hunt With more beloved children of the lion, until We too became old golden mothers. In that time the children of the lions are the ones we are dependent upon, Dependent upon their hunts, Their care. We, with teeth now worn, weary eyes, loose bellies and creacking backs, Walk within the family with new golden fathers, New tumbling children of the lions on endless plains. Like the great setting sun We too reach our own fathest horizon and Life slips away Leaving golden forms to be consumed, To give life to others of the African plain, and those of the sky blue - and excange of life. Simple. We, the old golden ones, would leave behind Our living, tumbling, hunting, caring, copulating, Fighting, feasting legacy. We would be content golden ghosts of endless plains Remembered by our ancestors in heaven. Today the pads of our feet no loger walk Forever endless plains, mountain range wide. We live in pockets of land, no loger free spirits. Like many of the old wilds, we now live in twilight times. We are born in the twilight of the life of lions - Our life is much altered. Some of we children of the lion Die before we are born into that twilight. A bullet may crash into a golden mother`s head, Then anohter into where we lie within her - unborn. Men then appear, gloat and stand above the golden mother`s body, Us, within her, dying unborn, And with sweaty faces, the man smile. We die as wire traps our entire necks. The wire tightens, we fight. The wire eats into out golden fur Then into red flesh, choking us. The light turns to red, blood red, Then before our eyes there is only Black. Man will again appear as our Spirits watch from secret shadows, Us watching our dead, crumpled, gold Forms. Man then strip out gold from our bodies And then we are left, Our spirits watching the grotesque red Forms, us. The bloated eyes, protruding, but unseeing. Us. Children of the lion tumble on restricted plains When golden mother falls after the crash, Anoteher bullet, another death. Children of the lion run terrified to nowhere, Then wait for their mother`s return Only she never returns. The children of the lion no longer tumble but lie forlorn, Now less their golden mothers, And wait and wait till we, the bone jutting, tawny Children of the lion die, Here, there, almost everywhere Where lions can still walk upon pockets of plain, Forest depths, mountain range. We lions die living, die eating. We kill a cow, the cow kills us. Its glesh will be anointed by man with poison. We feast, our stomachs writhe like snakes in pits of coals. We vomit, we defecate, retching, shitting, Then die with our excrement around us, on us, Others come to eat - the chain of life needs to continue. But The links are eroded by the poison. The jackal moves away from the circles of excrement Around us, and Vomits and shits. The vulture rises into the sky to feel the thermals, Then sinks, madly flapping, flapping in its madness Before hitting the ground. It shits, vomits and dies. The hyaena by night lopes forward, Biting and wallowing what he finds, Then sinks away to rest. The raging thirst begins, then the raging madness Of pain. He dies alove on the plain. Children of the lion are today in Some places bred by man, And man delionises the children, humiliates The children to make them perform feats in Front of crowds and crowds of watching, Laughing, squealing, shouting people. After the tricks, the children are prodded into small cages to await the next time. What misery, what despair as the children of the Lion stare with unblinking amber eyes Out into a changed world, Head resting on paw, cramped within a cage. Now sad, a sad, sad fascimile of his proud ancestors of endless plains, forest depths, mountain range. Man has taken our land. He destroyed what we are dependent upon - The other old ones, the denizens of a shrinking, Ancient world, Those of stripes, those of horns, those we must kill To enable ourselves to live. Man will kill us with mad malevolence Lusting particularly to kill the golden fathers with their fine heads. We, the family, shout our anger After the man shoots the golden father dead. As droplets of his rich blood drip onto the sand, leaf or stone, We flee. Without our golden father, the security he gave, We flee. Fierce fathers come in time to take his place And the children of the golden father in turn are killed. Our society becomes unbalanced. A new golden father is tolerated by Golden mothers and aunts as time passes. They copulate and new children of the lions arrive. They grow... Then man comes again seeking golden fathers The new is murdered like the old. We shout our anger, Drip, drip, rich blood on sand, leaf or stone. We flee. Our siciety is torn apart and will happen again. Imbalance. A man kills a lion. To man this is acceptable. A lion kills a man? Kill it! Kill it! Kill it! scream other man and another golden father dies, Another golden mother dies, With us, the unborn, within her. We are not your underlings, man. We are another nation of life, Old, old nation of life to whom the land belongs. And you are destroying that from which You could ultimately learn. We walked the endless plains long before you Walked upright and became a man. We are of an old, polished life, old life, Lion life of anchient times. Think of your unborn man, and their unborn. Think about the world you have carved up, poisoned. Think about the children of lions on the restricted plain. What you are doing to the lion You unwittingly - you with curious Eyes and minds - Are doing the same unto yourself - Ripping the umbilical cord of your nation Your kind From this earth. A poem written by Gareth Patterson, put in this form [without any changes to the text] by Sichi [sichi@lionking.org]