The writer moves on, looking then at the tiger pen.
I am Tiger.
I used to hunt, running through the wild, all others fearing my roar, quailing at the sight of me: run and thump, run and thump. I was merciless, cutting down my prey, before they even noticed my presence. I hunted foes that thought that they might stand against me, but I killed them all with impuany. My hunt is done now.
I used to rule. I laughed at those who ran from me. I would catch them, savouring the moment of glory before announcing to the world my undisputed lordship: roar and stomp, roar and stomp. They would all bow before me, and fall down, quivering, for I was ruler. My reign is done now.
I used to roar. I would let the sound build in my chest, a purr, and then a fearsome growl until the full fury of my roar would be unleashed, sending the wildlife scattering: run and squeak, run and squeak. The world would humble themselves beneath me, acknowledging how I, the one, would roar. But my roar is done now.
And yet, I remain. I am tiger still.