Roaring, roaring –
The huntress rears;
She snarls her rage
Above her fears.

The window, my weakness…
The land I’ve loved:
Rolling savannahs,
Golden doves.

Snarling – lurches –
The lioness bounds;
Roils smoke from her paws
As her glowing life pounds.

The window is no comfort -
It only taunts cruelly,
With a thirsty vision
To which I am never returning.

The huntress does not stop;
The hunt has begun…
She won’t turn back
Until she’s won.

The window: my vice.
New times must begin.
This is no longer my home…
It’s just somewhere I’ve been.