“You carry the dead little fox Your fingers are in its fur And its corpse is right against your chest. It is cold, and stiff, and light - It is merely a baby. Life is unfair, you think Who kills children? The trees are high, The ground is slippery And the path is dark But you walk and you hold it Hold the dead little fox So it doesn’t fall again. Its cold is slowly reaching you And it says: the little fox is dead Why are you holding on to it so tightly? But you can’t just walk past it and ignore it. Life is unfair, you breathe Who kills children? You reach a clearing The place is as beautiful As the dead little fox. There is no bloodstain on its fur, no wound To tell the story of its death. You pick flowers and cut your fingers But it deserves your last ounce of love. You talk to the little fox and you say: It will be ok. You are safe now. You do not have a shovel But the clearing has a tree And the grass is high. Here, the dead little fox Will rest forever with a crown Of innocently tied buttercups. You finally let go of its body But something clings on to you. Near your heart, death found its new home. Life is unfair, you whisper Who kills children? You leave the dead little fox behind In the clearing, in the grass, in the shadow of the tree Your tears are warm But your skin is marble cold. The dead little fox reminded you of someone She was younger than you – she even looked like you. She died one day and nobody noticed. They did not bury her And her corpse remained within you. Your body is her graveyard: There is a ghost haunting your head And maggots eating your bones from the inside. This is why you bury the dead creatures That you meet in the forest. This is why you take them in your arms And cradle them till you find a beautiful clearing. This is why you talk to them When your throat is full of tears. They remind you of the dead little girl That no one tried to protect. No one saved her They could have – but they let her die. So you carry dead little foxes against your chest Like the child that you once were For little corpses do not deserve to rot in the open light. You shelter them one last time And when you put flowers on their head You cry and tell them that finally, they are safe. The dead little fox is hidden in the clearing And you are home, barely alive. You think of the dead little girl. Her pictures are on the walls of your house. There was no bloodstain - the murder was clean. That day, she still went back home on her shaking little legs And they thought: she is alive. They never took the time to really look at her - They failed to notice that life was gone from her eyes. You cradle yourself with your own weak arms As if you could still reach her But she has been dead for so long That she has turned to dust within you. Life is unfair, you cry Who kills children?”
theartofmadeline
discoholicmusic
yousharknotpass
snowghoul
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
dailybridgerton
gracieabrams
