The Lion: King of the Jungle

Upon the throne of earth and flame,
The lion roars to stake his claim,
His mane a crown, his eyes ablaze,
He rules the wild in ancient ways.

Beneath the sun’s relentless fire,
He walks with strength, with calm, with ire,
Each pawprint pressed in dust and stone,
A mark that says: “This land’s my own.”

The jungle bends to hear his sound,
A thunder rolling through the ground,
And every beast, both near and far,
Knows well the weight of who you are.

No velvet court, no royal crest,
Just heart that beats within his chest,
A king not born from gold or throne,
But made by claw and will alone.

The zebras flee, the antelope dart,
When echoes strike their trembling heart,
They see the flash of amber eye—
A silent hunt beneath the sky.

Yet he is more than just a blade,
He guards the pride, his role well-played,
With cubs that climb and queens that stand,
A kingdom held by tooth and hand.

He watches stars from hills so high,
Their ancient glow within his eye,
And knows, though time may pass him by,
His legend will not fade or die.

For in the jungle, fierce and wide,
Where only strongest can abide,
The lion walks, both bold and free—
A timeless king, by nature’s decree.