Scurry, little mouse, the skies are growing blind. 

It spares no great attention, it feels no deep remorse. 

Now, if it cries, it will only paint us red.

Flee, tired sparrow, to the mountains you must go. 

Hide within the caverns, cower between the crevices. 

Its stability will not betray you, so long as you deliver upon your dues. 

Burrow, crown-less cobra, into the cold, dark and empty. 

The venom in thy veins, has grown too noxious even for you. 

A lethality that once poisoned others, now rears its head to strike you. 

Cry, heart-ached swallow, the forest is a home no more. 

Within are no familiar faces, and a house can be naught without warmth. 

Beneath the roof, above the tiles, the shelter you once knew, now greets you as a dire prison. 

Howl, pack-less wolf, a dynasty you were never part of. 

Your fur is thoroughly stained, with the stench of a foul-willed traitor. 

A mark you may only cleanse, at the end of your exile.

Despair, prideful dragon, for your treasures are of worth no more. 

A currency you cannot spend, for a loot none seek to covet. 

You are now rich with poverty, and wealthy in dread. 

Flee, creatures once noble. 

Flee, to what is foreign. 

Flee, to what is death. 

Flee, to escape, where you know not what to expect. 

Run, only to learn that what you run from, does not chase you. 

It hunts you.