Image: Hard Stare From Paddington
As the known hunter shut up the lion with his bullets.
An eerie silence fell.
The jungle lamented over another fallen king.
The other animals weep as the undertakers lift the King’s casket to its apartment six feet down,
Tears mixed with sweat as other animals cried while following the casket with the same uniform.
It was like the sun shone darkness, and an ocean hovering blood as red waves hit the rocky shores.
All I could hear is the known hunter saying;
Mortals carrying a mortal, dead men weeping for a dead man.
Who is living? The dead or the living?
This same hunter will lead you home,
This same hunter will end your worries and predicament.
Lives already dead, while their blood yet flow,
Some had already stopped breathing before their heart stop its bit.
Many are just a drum for the sun, while others till their land in a cool box.
Sad it is;
But none of them will ever escape the known hunter.
They waste their time proving hierarchy and the differences they possess.
They often compare themselves with one another,
Sigh, such headaches.
But just like the lion, the known hunter will settle their differences.
The mighty has fallen, they’ll say when the known hunter strikes.
Maybe they have forgotten, this known hunter is the reason the little and small shall fall.
So I ask again, who exactly is living?
The living or the dead?
When the dead had absolutely no worries, and the living is simply surviving.
When time is the only difference between each strike of the known hunter had made and will make.
Please can you tell me, who is living?