𝘼𝙉𝙂𝙀𝙇𝙊 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝙃𝙄𝙎 𝙋𝙍𝙄𝘿𝙀𝙎 𝙇𝙊𝙍𝙀 —
Through The Snowy Mountains That Never Met — Vivi
Angelo, the lion, bold and grand,
Once roamed the savannah’s golden land,
But poachers came, with hearts of stone,
And tore his kin from the world he’d known.
The winds of danger whispered near,
So Angelo, with no more fear,
Turned his gaze to the distant snow,
To escape the shadows that followed him so.
Through endless plains and burning heat,
His mighty paws, with weary beat,
Tread on, though muscles felt the strain,
With courage rising through the pain.
The mountains loomed, so cold, so high,
Where the frozen winds cut like a cry,
Yet Angelo pressed through biting frost,
For the life of kin, no matter the cost.
Each step was hard, each breath a strain,
But in his heart, there burned no pain,
Only fire, only fight,
To reclaim peace, to find the light.
Through snow and ice, he journeyed far,
Guided by the distant star,
Till at last, a frozen lake he found,
Where silence roared, and peace did resound.
He lay beside the icy shore,
A place for rest, forevermore,
Where the Vermonter Pride would rise and stay,
In safety and peace, from that day.
And Angelo, though tired and worn,
With heart still strong, though bruised and torn,
Had found his home, his endless flight—
A lion free beneath the winter's light.
──── ୨୧ ───────── ୨୧ ───────── ୨୧ ─────
THE SNOW APIRIT OF VERMONTER —
a lone, wandering lion soul that found its way — to home.
𝙎𝙥𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙡𝙤𝙧𝙚 -
The Snow Spirit of Vermonter”
He came with breath as soft as thread,
A lion cub, not right, they said.
Too many limbs, too small a frame—
The stars wept gently when he came.
He could not walk. He could not rise.
His body bent beneath the skies.
He dragged his weight through dust and thorn,
A child cursed the day he’s born.
His mother tried—then turned her face,
Her heart too full, her love displaced.
The milk she gave to others first;
He sucked on frost to quench his thirst.
The cubs would bite, then run in packs,
They laughed behind his crooked back.
He cried in silence, weak and sore,
His name became Not Anymore.
Not worthy of the lion's grace,
No hunter's joy, no father’s face.
Each day he lived was not a gift,
But one more stone his spine must lift.
His limbs were chains, his breath a chore,
He slept on bones, and dreamt of more—
Of running free through windswept white,
Of feeling warmth, of tasting light.
But dreams are cruel to those who ache,
And so one dusk, the pride did break.
His father came with tearful eyes,
A sorrow deeper than the skies.
“I gave you pain,” the lion said,
“You suffer just to raise your head.
You won’t survive this world so mean—
Let me set you free, unseen.”
A heavy paw, the silence deep,
The world went still, as if asleep.
No scream, no fight—just one last sigh,
As starlight filled his closing eye.
But death was not the end for him.
He wandered plains in twilight dim.
A ghost with eyes of sorrow wide,
No stars to guide, no place to hide.
He roamed through heat, through ash and stone,
A soul forgotten, lost, alone.
He watched the prides from far away—
Afraid to near, too scarred to stay.
Until one dawn, so soft and pale,
He followed snow upon a trail.
And there, atop the mountain ledge,
Beyond the frostbit river’s edge—
He saw them—lions cloaked in white,
With silver eyes and coats like night.
The Vermonter Pride, strong, yet kind,
A place no outcast fell behind.
They did not snarl or turn in fear.
They felt his presence drawing near.
And when they saw him in the wind,
They bowed their heads and let him in.
He touched the snow and felt no pain.
His limbs were whole. He stood again.
The weight was gone, his sorrow too—
The sky above was wide and new.
He guards them now with quiet grace,
A spirit in that frozen place.
He watches cubs with gentle eyes,
No longer mocked, no more goodbyes.
He walks the blizzards, soft and light,
A shadow crowned in northern white.
And when the wind begins to moan,
It sings of him—who died alone.
But now he lives, in snow and flame—
The spirit child with no true name.
Once scorned, once crushed, once made to part—
Now joy and peace fill up his heart.
They call him Spirit, born of grief—
Now guardian, and soul’s relief.
𝙎𝙥𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖𝙣 𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙧 — 𝙖𝙣 𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙘𝙖𝙨𝙩, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙣 𝙪𝙜𝙡𝙮 𝙘𝙪𝙗, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙨𝙖𝙞𝙙.
𝙃𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙚𝙭𝙩𝙧𝙖 𝙡𝙞𝙢𝙗𝙨, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙢𝙗𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙢𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙨𝙪𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙤 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝.
𝙔𝙚𝙩 𝙤𝙣 𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙤 𝙨𝙖𝙙 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚, 𝙩𝙧𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙫𝙞𝙫𝙚.
𝙏𝙤 𝙣𝙤 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨 — 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣, 𝙞𝙣 𝙨𝙖𝙙𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨.
