In the Amazon's heart, the tiger's cry rings,
Through dense foliage, it hunts, it springs.
Devouring its catch with a dancer's grace,
Yet, in the wild, it's losing its place.

Once a chance to glimpse its stripes was fair,
From ten to two percent, a loss too hard to bear.
As hunters' guns lift, their echoes grim,
A hundred thousand strong, now prospects dim.

Just ten thousand left, then four thousand five,
Where once they thrived, now they struggle to survive.
Six subspecies remain, under three thousand each,
Three lost forever, beyond our reach.

The tiger's roar, a call of the wild,
Now caged for entertainment, its freedom defiled.
Not born for performance, not born for a cage,
Their numbers dwindle, victims of human rage.

Cub mortality climbs, the headlines scream,
By 2030, no more tigers, a vanishing dream.
A beloved creature, facing a dire plight,
By 2040, gone from sight, day and night.

Climate's cruel change, habitats erased,
Guns silence hearts that once fiercely raced.
As prey vanish, the tigers hunger, they roam,
In search of sustenance, far from home.

Prey numbers surge, the balance upset,
The tiger's fall, a silhouette of regret.
Their paws leave marks in the Amazon's clay,
A testament to what we're losing each day.

Their fate, their future, in our hands does rest,
It's up to us to do what's best.
To save the tiger, to make a stand,
For their survival, we must lend a hand.
© willow wood