shirotsumekusa

They called him names with cruel delight—
An ogre, goblin, ghastly sight.
A lion born of rot and wrong,
Too green to ever quite belong.

He bore their sneers, their endless jeers,
For years that bled like hidden tears.
"Why must I live with this disgrace?
Why wear this shame upon my face?"

His mane—a curse of leafy flame,
The thing they mocked, the thing they blamed.
His parents? Silent, cold, and still.
They watched him break, they watched him spill.

But fire brews in quiet rage,
It burns the bars, it splits the cage.
He roared one day—so loud, so raw,
And left them hushed in silent awe.

He named their hate, he cursed their pride,
He spat their filth back multiplied.
And then he ran—no place to stay,
Just bitter wind to guide his way.

He starved, he stumbled, bled alone,
Through rootless paths and frozen stone.
His stomach clawed, his soul was thin,
But still he pressed, with trembling chin.

Then came a path of snow and shade,
Where whispers of a lake were made.
"A warm one," said the grinning few—
But half the tale they told was true.

The lake was cold, the wind was worse,
His breath a fog, his steps a curse.
And worse than ice, the scent he knew—
Another pride already grew.

He froze—both heart and paws and breath,
A flicker caught in winter's death.
But then he squared his shoulders wide,
And buried all the fear inside.

Across the ice, with nerves grown thin,
He faced the king with stubborn chin.
His voice did shake, but still rang true:
“Take me in… I’m someone too.”