Dear Giraffe,
The past year I've been writing many letters, mainly deep at night. To a falcon, who flew away, but didn't return to the land that I described. To a snake, who slipped out of my hands, but didn't respond to the metaphors sprouting from my intoxicated brain. To a meerkat, who occasionally replied to my words with a brief, appealing shout, but mostly continued playing on branches too thin to hold my weight.
I waited for summer and it arrived, with boats steering me through the thick, hot air. Staring at the shore absent-mindedly, you may have been there, elegantly walking your wobbly walk, as if paced by internal, invisible waves, alone but not lonely. It became winter, and even though it didn't snow, I slept inside my cave.
Spring arrived; inside a roar was growing, ready to be freed as I stopped sedating it with venom. My fur started to shine again and my mussels regained their strength, allowing me to hunt: each time jumping between branches further away, while fear of falling seeped away in mid-air.
Tired but content, I climbed onto a large rock and sat down, looking over the vast plains, with its fertile soil that had been weathering the bedrocks for years. And suddenly, giraffe, you were there, gracefully galloping over the mineral earth. You approached me curiously, yet with precaution. While I kept distance, you decided to fold your long, strong legs and sit down next to me, allowing yourself to be vulnerable in the presence of my ferocious nature.
Now, while you went for a walk, I see the rains approaching in the distance, the rains that will wash away all residual sorrow and allow forgotten seeds to burst and grow. And I know, that I don't need to write you.
Yours,
Black panther
The past year I've been writing many letters, mainly deep at night. To a falcon, who flew away, but didn't return to the land that I described. To a snake, who slipped out of my hands, but didn't respond to the metaphors sprouting from my intoxicated brain. To a meerkat, who occasionally replied to my words with a brief, appealing shout, but mostly continued playing on branches too thin to hold my weight.
I waited for summer and it arrived, with boats steering me through the thick, hot air. Staring at the shore absent-mindedly, you may have been there, elegantly walking your wobbly walk, as if paced by internal, invisible waves, alone but not lonely. It became winter, and even though it didn't snow, I slept inside my cave.
Spring arrived; inside a roar was growing, ready to be freed as I stopped sedating it with venom. My fur started to shine again and my mussels regained their strength, allowing me to hunt: each time jumping between branches further away, while fear of falling seeped away in mid-air.
Tired but content, I climbed onto a large rock and sat down, looking over the vast plains, with its fertile soil that had been weathering the bedrocks for years. And suddenly, giraffe, you were there, gracefully galloping over the mineral earth. You approached me curiously, yet with precaution. While I kept distance, you decided to fold your long, strong legs and sit down next to me, allowing yourself to be vulnerable in the presence of my ferocious nature.
Now, while you went for a walk, I see the rains approaching in the distance, the rains that will wash away all residual sorrow and allow forgotten seeds to burst and grow. And I know, that I don't need to write you.
Yours,
Black panther
