She crossed the river. Never looking back.
The water closed behind her, slow and grey.
The keeper spat — that fool will starve out black.
This trunk reached down. Found hay. Began to sway.
Once, something surged — coiled tight inside the snout.
Old strength. One swing could crack a skull, a chain.
The rage rose up. The legs knew how to route.
Instead: a kneeling. Mango split for pain.
It filled the hollow where the wild had been.
Sweet wet against the throat. The rage went soft.
She starves out there. Or climbs. Who knows. Unseen.
Here, fruit comes steady. Masters ride aloft.
These columns carry weight they chose to bear.
The trunk remembered war. It chose the pear.