Running through the den of trees,
Where goblins do recess,
Shouting useless, petty pleas,
A girl runs in distress.
Hands that once played merrily,
And feet that always danced,
Now swipe branches warily,
To escape by some small chance.
Down into the dale she blunders,
Tripping as she bounds,
As the lightning, storms, and thunders,
Converge and tear these fragile grounds.
There is no knight in shining armor,
No rouge who knows the way,
No kind son of a poor farmer,
Can come to save the day.
The trees reach out and grab her,
They scratch like angry cats,
Brambles bite and stab her,
Like little evil rats.
Who knows what she runs from?
Who could ever care?
To her the world is deaf and dumb,
The world is just unfair.
Somewhere people laugh and talk,
Or smile, joke, and sing,
But to her, this all is blocked,
For she’s running from something...
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