My father named me Taka,
Swahili for dirt,
Or in the land of Pride,
A father left his son in the frozen hands
Of a shameful river.
Brother, have you listened to the sound
Of a femur breaking from the weight of a second son?
A nerve losing its way,
In a field uglier than its own spit,
Or a fireplace becoming a thumbnail
Of a land burning.
What is a leader if not a mouthpiece
For a kingdom in flames.
What is a king if not a mirror
To watch the lungs of his brother explode.
What is a scar if not meant,
To reveal the opening of a bleeding wound.
(Written from the point of view of Scar, from The Lion King)