The trees arose in clean and clear coppice
And garnered by verdure and peonies.
The air that coolly blew was at its peace
And fluidly went through the leaves with ease.
Then Tigress, wrapped in white, a coat of death,
And tranquil stripes of black, was on the prowl.
A Man with sword in hand was out of breath.
His helm and heart were heavy; he heard a growl.
Then out of brush and thick the beast attacked
And like a dragonfly he dodged and cut.
The blood, the passion, out. And taken aback
The Man could not be brought, at last, to gut
Her and his affection.
With her, the flowers withered
And he had nothing.















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