The proud pines scratched the sky in swaying unison
And the soft floral creatures rambled between tangled roots
Foraging for flair, sniffing out the rare words
That once grew and splashed in tune with the rushing stream
You cannot speak of these stolen words with any soul
For the dark pines screamed and scratched that angry stranger
Who chopped the wild words from creaking boughs
And plucked the fallen chunks and shards for fuel
But the watchmaker only hears his ticking trade
The whines of the pines are lost in the chugs and the cogs
And the clock’s jewels flicker, each click with brilliant fires
These flames smolder with words from the forest’s floor.
But through the watchmaker’s lens
The crying pines will be whole again.
And the soft creatures will heal.
And the world is safe.