My daughter’s warm breath is gentle against my ancient fur,
These bars seem gentle, too, worn smooth and secure.
I’ve never tasted freedom, but once licked a child’s hand.
It tasted sweet and tangy, yet as distant as the divide it spanned.
My pride is restless, soft-padding around our little home.
A far away rumble reminds our ears; how endless is the sky dome.
But I smell only rough fur and heavy cologne; no rain.
No piquant grass, no fresh iron blood, only this; my old, blind refrain.