A Parley With a Black Centaur

Upon a modest incursion of cruelty,

Would find the chains turning to weapons, 

Black flagged like a face burnt in their shackles,

 Antlers disappearing now and then,

Possibly for far too long,

Don't be disappointed though,

Because we've already died a thousand times,

 A hard stone to curve,

But not every stone is yours,

So you may hand it back,

To him Its precious,