He stalks in his vivid stripes the few steps of his cage, on pads of velvet quiet in his quiet rage.
He should be lurking in shadow, sliding thorough long gress near the water hole where plump deer pass.
He should be snarling around houses at the jungle's edge, baring his white fangs his claws, terrorising the village!
But he's locked in a concrete cell, his strength behind bars, stalking the length of his cage, ignoring visitors.
He hears the last voice at night, the patrolling cars, and stares with his brilliant eyes at the brilliant stars.
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