Through the hush of the forest the white fox goes,
Like the spark of white smoke, entwined across bare meadows;
Burrowed beneath silken sheets of snow he’ll hide,
And he’ll plunder for fruit to carry on his back.
The wrath of the winter now sharpens, all ready to attack,
He treads through the forest which glimmers with hoar frost;
The prickle of glass tears is sprinkled on hedgerows and fields.
And now spread across them the crystal-like shadows it yields.
Beneath the argent gaze of frozen moons he’ll slip,
Past the brumal walls where the frosted silver melts,
His sable fur is now mudded by the ink,
Of human error that corrupts his padded felt.
And as he glides through the nature so steady in his track,
He’ll bear the bite of concrete now burrowed in his heels.
And the lecture that clawed through the story’s final belt,
Is the insatiable greed of mankind’s own descent.