Nobody sees the thorn lodged in his foot,
Nor feels the blood pooling ’round his toes.
The keep won’t guard itself, he thinks,
As his boot, now crimson, overflows.
And a forester’s felling somewhere,
Trees toppling one by one,
As a birch swings wrong and traps him there,
and, silently, he’s done.
And nobody hears a tree fall on the dead,
Nobody cares about a thorn in a sole
Until they’re bleeding on a stroll,
and the trees are falling on their head.

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