A queen sends him on his way
with an empty box and a mission,
Under the orders of the magic glass
he is recast as the assassin.

In soft shoes he beckons a girl,
into the depths of a mossy wood,
over root and worm, acorn and leaf,
to do what no other could, or would.

The huntsman’s knife is at the ready,
he walks behind her, holding a breath,
but when the time comes, his strike is halted-
the young girl pleads to stay her death.

The ferns that dress the twisted trees,
the mosses that whisper a sigh,
The oak that bends its heavy branches,
all of them, too, ask the huntsman, “Why?”

As she runs into the distance,
the air thunders with the creaking of wood,
as the forest turns its branches to him,
for doing what no man would, or should.