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