We found him out in the storm
soaking from head to toe.
Nothing of him was spared,
his clothes tattered and ripped.
A home was all he needed.

We shared our bread with him
and tried to dry his clothes fervently.
Still damp and cold, he was shaking.
A fire was lit and warmth filled his bones.

We could see into him.
Our inspection was scrupulous.
Like the Fates with their strings
his life was ours to mend;
a school to alter his will.

He began to fornicate with them,
the outcasts who refused our grace.
We knew he did not belong here.
Opening the door we cast him out.
He is forever dead to us now.