You shouldn’t have died like that. Hounded like a thief through the cold remorseless landscape of Borth, hiding under caravans, instead of roaming forests and steppes, your beautiful eyes golden in the dark. What were you dreaming of, beneath the false carapace of a caravan, those pseudo tin-can homes which house the dreams of those seeking solace and communication with nature? Nature came to them and they didn’t know it, nature in the form of a lone young lynx tasting freedom for the first time, having the scent of salt air assail her nostrils, tasting the smoke of log fires on her tongue, and the dank rancid breath of humans. Beauty can be a curse. You were used to being stared at, through bars and the filtered lens of those who professed to love you but didn’t know how. Did you sense the death of your sister lynx, Nilly, strangled by a clumsy noose? Did you hear her beating heart race then falter, as yours would in the blast from the gunman who stalked you? What communion would there have been between you? Would you have shared with her the feel of earth beneath your feet, the wind in the hills, the rushing songs of streams? Would she have cried, Run for me Lilleth, as I cannot …? Lilleth, Lilleth! Who named you for a Goddess they called a demon? Who spread the lie that your life as a female represented something to be feared? Was it fear of you that drove them to hunt you down, or fear of the pack behind them, each one charging the other with their own twisted truths, or simple, cold-blooded cruelty. Be free now Lilleth, let your spirit run the hills, course the rivers; we will see you, and honour you, and never forget you.