Scarface

Across the golden Mara,

a lone lion limps through whispering grass.

One eye shadowed, one scar deep as sorrow,

his mane tangled in the winds of battle.

Once he roared with brothers,

the Musketeers of dust and sun,

scattering rivals, silencing hyenas,

ruling a kingdom of shadows and light.

Years carved their weight into his bones,

each wound a crown, each scar a story.

Time hunted him silently,

slowing his steps, dimming his roar,

yet he faced it like the king he was.

When death came, it came quietly,

carrying him to the earth he had guarded.

The plains remember his courage,

the sky remembers his roar,

and the world remembers Scarface,

king eternal in memory and shadow.