The Hamlet Project

A lion shakes his mane
Over the place the lioness laid herself down and died.
Her bones have long ago been picked clean by vultures
And the various insects who feed on decay.
There is nothing left here but a worn spot in the grass
Where the lion stands
To remember.
He roars sometimes.
Sometimes he just sleeps here.
There are moments wherein he paws the ground.
It looks as though he is hoping she will rise up
Through it
Grow out of it, like a reed.
Watching him,
I want poetry.
I want a few words that we could understand
Words that might give him something.
Not hope, no
Not consolation even.
Just a gift of something
Words
Or music.
There is no hugging a lion
But grief makes me want to sing to him.