The rain patters on tear shed glass as he is surrounds himself with ivory walls,the soft cry of a mother a child a man ,faintly echo in the back of the mind but only for a Mere second any more would taint the virtue of his soul,
trees whale as the life blood of the forest is drained to be sold by one armed children to societies elitist of elite, to make car wheels and shoe souls for not so blistered feet,
the best hunting ground in the world,he may have exclaimed to his rich aristocratic friends,and as the king of the jungle lay under polished leather boots dying a slow and pitiful death he laughed.
And yet one hundred years later the deeds of conquest and intervention were to be forgotten and replaced with that of a builder king.