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<!DOCTYPE html>
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    <title>Finding the Lion | Autocento of the breakfast table</title>
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            <h1 class="title">Finding the Lion</h1>
            

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            <p><span class="line">Tonight, as I look up, the stars</span><span class="line">hide themselves in shame. <a href="moongone.html">There is no moon</a>.</span><span class="line">The sky is black, like my desk,</span></p>
            <p><span class="line"><a href="feedingtheraven.html">nothing like a raven</a>. The streetlights</span><span class="line">look on the scene disinterested.</span><span class="line">They have their own <a href="the-night-we-met.html">small gossips of the dark</a>.</span></p>
            <p><span class="line">I came here to find the Lion, old</span><span class="line">friend, but he will not show his flanks, his</span><span class="line">paws, his shoulders, <a href="axe.html">his mane</a>. I</span></p>
            <p><span class="line">can hear him laughing from his hiding-place</span><span class="line">behind the moon, nonexistent, under</span><span class="line">the cold dead earth. The mountain is in front</span></p>
            <p><span class="line">of me now, a hole of stars daring me</span><span class="line">to pierce it with my sight. The lion’s still</span><span class="line">laughing; the streetlamps talk about</span></p>
            <p><span class="line">me amongst themselves, and go out. There</span><span class="line">never was any lion, they tell me.</span><span class="line"><a href="cold-wind.html">You only hear the wind</a> <a href="mountain.html">on the mountain</a>.</span></p>
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