In the forest stands a fingered tree,
With leaves and prickles that snatches me,
I stop and stare, its spell it casts,
And a wind doth blow the strongest blast.
Now out I gaze with unmoving eyes,
Upon the next victim who saunters by,
My leaves they prickle and snatches thee
As you pass by the casket tree.
By L. M. Montes
WRITE TIME AND AGAIN 