The prophecy stung-
the deepness of it strung,
High up in the mountains
on a winter's breeze.
My kit would not survive,
would not be alive
to be apprenticed.
That's the prophecy of
StarClan's fate-
my kit will be late.
She won't ever know the world-
He wont' know our Clan.
WindClan must be lacking
for this kind of leaf bare to stand.
We don't have food-
the rabbits have gone away.
There's no food for our elders at the
end of the day.
What do you think of summer?
And it's dry heat
The plains are scorching-
it's our Clan that's beat.
So I'll accept the fate,
I won't tell it when
it' born alive,
just to latter curl up and die.