In vast Gir forests, the golden monarch reigns
With flowing mane and strength in his veins
Where Teaks stand tall, the shadows stretch thin
He is the golden warrior of the parched ravine.
A sturdy chest and claws like the sharpened steel
He hunts with an elegance and strike of silent zeal
And walks in jungle with a velvet, impressive grace
Akin to a sovereign song in a single, sacred place.
He is the pride of Gir, majestically amber dressed
The bravest and the best of all creatures of wild
His thunderous roar often makes the valley shake
The monarch awakes, and all in the forest quake.
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