Once split, twice shy, the tree
Will not disclose the plight
Of those condemned to beEmbedded out of sight.
They never speak of her.
Whatever once occurred
To make a prisoner,
No one will say a word.
Only the bark is warm,
In places bark is not,
And when lush Carpo’s storm
Shakes the wood, the lot
Of trees exempts such places,
No motion and no sound,
No sense of human faces,
Except the wetted ground.
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