The horses fall over themselves to please the unpleasant bastards with whips,
wind whistling around the forest as the freedom of nature is disrupted by posh accents and the clatter of hooves against the soft, sleeping ground.

It has been a few hours since the birth of an Innocent was celebrated,
and now,
hungover aristocrats hammer through the peace and quiet of God’s creatures to murder an innocent.

Howling and hooting,
eyes peeled and petulant,
hungry for blood, like Herod,
hunting for one who woke up to another beautiful day in the green paradise,
so unaware that executioners were invading.

The butchers bound into places they don’t belong,
surrounding a small thing that simply wanted to exist,
his eyes, guiltless, glitter in the sunlight that bursts through the branches,
but the freaks that have found him are not moved.