i cried to my daddy on the telephone

[Zacharie]

the saints are coming // the saints are coming
i say no matter how i try // i realize there's no reply

It does not take much time for the initial rumblings in his stomach to morph into an incessant growl. He had never known hunger – not where he came from (not that his little mind understood where he came from), but he quickly decides that he does not enjoy this strange feeling. He feels the contractions of his small tummy continue, and with a feeble grunt, pushes his small dark muzzle towards his side. By now, the wetness of birth had begun to dry, clinging to his dark coat in an unpleasant manner. He feels the caking along his coat as he touches his small barrel, but the rumbling continues.

Dejected, he turns his head back towards the golden form – still motionless as ever. Off in the distance, behind the lifeless shape, he spies movement in a pale form. He watches it for a moment as it enlarges, but he does not know what it is. Nevertheless, he manages another weak bleat. To the golden mare or the pale figure, he does not know. Instead, he whimpers again faintly, crying to anyone or anything that would listen.