The Foxes friends
Their hearts have sent.
The reverence of their journey will turn the heart.
There eyes reverent as cubs of the mother fox of Orion’s star
There belts made of hardened memories
Although if we know the stories through the centuries.
And so be sentimental entries of pen of heart, wisdom and resolution for the final solution.
Holding the golden tears, fears of no sense but a simple pretence.
Holding in arrears of these who walked the fields without flowers.
Yet their love blossomed towered. Holding tears made of rain.
With a face of stone, as they hunger for flowers to their bones. The resolution and the battle for hearts and minds is sown and so is a fierce spirit and innocent smile shown.
Memoirs of a serenade with unknown words yet the song went unheard. Shalom.
Creeping in among those who hold their toes. The little fox cubs and their woes.
Was there reverence for the path the hunters chose.
What is a hunt when they are in front defenceless in strength of body? But fortified in innocence of spirit.
Was I to name a fox? Was I to count their number?
In came the echo of moral imperative thunder.
Enlightened by the children of foxes. Do not forget the apples they bring and hide but sing among the ghetto of foxes.
Forget not being begotten in the choir of lungs that did blow.
The howling wind would carry their notes and words to the cowering sinned a flurry of undead eagle birds.
The little fox says as he approaches the gates to return to his prison and his mates:
As we see this journey do not turn me in, this is a kiss of absolution that brings peace as one would wish so, do not let your dish, turn, cold carry on with the message to have and to hold.
Don’t cry shouted the foxes over the fence other wise your babbling will make our love make no sense. Said the cubs at the other side of the fence.
The guards were yet to see the words that could have been go free.
The organisation of the orchestrated hunt didn’t discriminate between adult and runt.
Yet the guards were not prepared for this runt. Herding like babe with a wave of sound a whistle and a howl a serenade as if a loyal hound.
His love was in the field of flowerless ground he needs to return with the chocolate he found.
Absent in reprisal fearless in retrieval. Smiling and singing in the face of evil.
The broken glass had put him last but to return was the last thing to do other than to see his love and fight his way through.
This young foxes’ eyes were firm and set magnetized in appreciation for a hopeless guise. He certainly knew returning could have him die.
He just wanted to see her smile.
Wiping and tending tears as he says I have chocolate here. Though we must share the vixens hair is so fair.
Where would we be the chocolate you see all the cubs and me says the lil fox a man to be.
It would not be there how do you think I leave the gates with no care to return on a dare ney it is her hair so fair.
How do you think I gallop and ride with love of a puppy in a foxes Hyde?
The young foxes turned and looked at the creators of the hunt, began to look, as they howled at the moon and the captor’s hearts were shaken too.
It was latent though they began to see the hunt and the final solutions true colours and patent.
Before more sympathy was permitted the little fox, litter were taken to a place worse than the ghetto.
For though the foxes were young indeed they began to see the flowerless ground had flowers not weeds.
That the weeds were foxes, but their song was blooming as reverberating flower serenades to make them see.
And so, stepping stones of flowers at the monument we see for every cub at a different age to be.
The leader of the hunt gargled “work will set you free”
The young fox cubs knew to disagree.
As the fox harrowing had been begun and was already seen
As the gates closed on the fox ghetto.
They felt more desperate though, as the right to leave and work was not just a quirk it was the only way to see the outside and smuggle the chocolate for his love with pride.
In total more than 8 million died.
They were not foxes’ they were humans with dignity and pride.
Some of the cubs had died, experiments and hollowing cries. Mengel.
There is no reprise
for the last solution and the look in the little foxes’ eyes.