Were it better to have been born in the time of conquest,
to be the pet of a bloodthirsty sultan, to see a mirror in the
eyes of man. When the world still knew that fur the colour
of a sunset and stripes like charcoal were the battle marks
of the king of the jungle. The bones understood a collar of
silver meant enslavement, just like the tongue remembered
the taste of prey. These tamed eyes cannot see the finger-
smudged plexiglass, only the khaki costumed tourists who
peer with mild wonder at the lazing house cat in the canopy.
Artwork courtesy of our featured artist Ernest Williamson III, PhD
