Little Wren of the Yearning Dawn
The First is always the hardest. But after a while, it is simply but a morning routine: One head to the block, let the gravity work the guillotine. I forget to wash the floorboards since the rich red Mahogany soaks it in nicely. I just let the bodies air out, figuring they'd learn to breathe again eventually. It's not until the raccoons come inside to take their supper, that I write the time of death. If a bird sings its song in the canopy of the forest, and there's at least one other to hear it, does the struggle of man make a sound? - Father Time, XX89AD