The Last Hunt
For the entirety of my short life
I have prepared for this moment, this hunt.
Not a beast that runs on four legs
nor two, nor birds of the air can escape me.
I have brought them all down skillfully,
with sharp wounds they have bled before me.
I fly swift across plains in pursuit,
even dogs tire at my running’s stamina.
I hope to look strong, accomplished
before the gods and heroes of my race.
I strike swiftly, with skill and strength,
but the beast is only wounded, not dead.
It stings–close, I am bleeding, but alive,
my vigor enlivened with the sight of my own blood.
The gods upon the earth and in the sky
are coming to my aid, I can feel them…
Brought down by a distant spear-cast,
the sweat of day, the heat, the blood…
He stands over me, triumphant,
and says only a few words to me:
“Bleed, little lion, bleed,”
before his sword finishes me off.