There once was a lion with no killing instinct.
He could track and stalk and pounce but he could not kill.
Every time he brought down an antelope or oryx he could not deliver the final stroke.
His mothers had forced him out, he was too old to be fed by the pride.
He haunted the plains slowly starving.
When his jaws were poised over his cornered prey his mind raced.
Who was this creature?
Did it have a family?
Was it relied upon?
Who would be left waiting?
Would it suffer?
Certainly it would suffer.
Would it suffer long?
What comes after?
For this creature and for me.
What is beyond?
Then he would look down at his prey in dazed confusion and let it free.
His thoughts were long as he paced the sun kissed desert.
And his stomach ached.
Thoughts are not deeds.
And something must be done.
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