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