He stood high up, near the small cave.
He had climbed where none had dared
And now no one would he save.
They shouted, “Selfish!” He didn’t care.
They threw rocks and missed by a mile.
The lion came and tore them bit by bit.
Down he hurled his javelin
And deep it stuck in it.
He climbed down and cut and ate.
Others he heard coming near.
He lifted his perfect spear
And climbed back up, to stand
Independent above the selfless horde.
They came—twenty—close to dying.
They shared the last of the lion
And never looked up to where he stood,
Then snuck guiltily into the shadows.
The setting sun touched his face with gold.
He wasn’t young, but not yet old.
His deep-set eyes were a startling blue
And everything about him seemed quite new.
“Selfish,” he thought, “what a beautiful word.
Alone, apart, and not of the herd.”
He looked at the red head of the sun
And knew completely that he was one.