In sheltered groves where moss and mysteries creep,
A gnome reclines, his wisdom worn and wry;
He’s watched the world forget what forests keep,
And heard the hush that follows every lie.

His laughter, brittle as the breaking frost,
Mocks mortals racing toward their crafted doom—
They buy false hope, convinced it can’t be lost,
And reap dark shadows as tragedies consume.

He’s seen them carve their names in living bark,
Declare dominion, desecrate the ancient shade;
They chase the sun, then conjure night’s dark mark,
And mourn the hollowed world their hands have made.

So in the shadowed depths, he carves with iron wit,
A chronicle of man—so cunning, blind, unfit.
The forest gnome, with eyes like smoldering coal,
Records the toll of progress: soul by soul.

Beneath the earth where silent secrets seethe,
He inscribes the score—a loss for every gain.
Mankind exults, blind to the web they weave:
Their golden age is paved atop the slain.