The foal speaks but only for a second,

its whispering moan is a delicate sound,

forget not its lupid lusturous language,

speaking only to me as its struggle continues,

born into a world of not knowing,

I try to lead it farther away,

away from this devilish place,

it sings to me, whims me,

this life I'm living ludicrously,

I look to the foal ladden on the ground,

red seeps like paint on canvas,

my foal dead, its innocence stolen,

wounded and vulnerable,

now left unspoken.