The poem
Look at the lion in the iron cage, look deep into his eyes: like two naked steel daggers they sparkle with anger. But he never loses his dignity although his anger comes and goes goes and comes.
You couldn't find a place for a collar round his thick, furry mane. Although the scars of a whip still burn on his yellow back his long legs stretch and end in the shape of two copper claws. The hairs on his mane rise one by one around his proud head. His hatred comes and goes goes and comes ...
The shadow of my brother on the wall of the dungeon moves up and down up and down.
I view myself as that captive lion; powerless in contending and forced to cope with life, while being under the scrutiny of an assortment of authoritative figure heads.