Upon the wall, a tale is told,
In stripes of black and gold,
A relic of the wild and free,
Now but a silent elegy.
Once, it roamed the forests deep,
Through shadows, where the hunters creep,
Majestic, fierce, a living flame,
Now a ghost, with none to blame.
In royal courts and ancient halls,
Its beauty graced these noble walls,
A trophy of a bygone quest,
A symbol of man's ruthless best.
The Bengal tiger's silent roar,
Echoes of a time before,
When jungles thrived, and rivers sang,
And nature's balance finely rang.
Now, we mourn with heavy hearts,
The loss of these magnificent parts,
A reminder of what once was grand,
A legacy carved by human hand.
Yet hope remains in whispers soft,
To save what little's left aloft,
For in our hands, the power lies,
To ensure the tiger never dies.
May this skin, upon the wall,
Serve as a timeless, urgent call,
To cherish, protect, and to defend,
The wild, until the very end.
