One Page Ponies

White fruit hung from a white branch of a white tree with white leaves. White flowers stuck to the base of its white trunk. Beside these a white brook neither flowed nor burbled.

White trees stood by white bushes in a white garden. All was still. All was still. There was no breeze. There were no bees. All was beautiful.

Her black hoof crushed the white grass. And Her black hoof plucked the fruit and brought it to Her black lips and she ate of it and it tasted of hate. And with Her black hoof she hurled it to the white ground where it was dust.

All was dust.

And She spat in the white dust and thought it a seed. And that seed bore white fruit upon a white tree.