How could you be so disconnected from the works of your own hand?

What callous fingers could not tell the difference between eggshells and petals?

Is it not apparent,

How the world tiptoes through your littered floor,

Only to dance in the hall beyond your door?

Do you not hear the music is out of tune,

And your pilfered banquet has turned sour?

Will you blame the winter when the cold returns,

And the fireplace lies bare, 

And the trees are unfelled,

And the dull axe was never lifted?

Surely, razing peaceful homes and nearby fields will keep you warm

As you stand by tinder and flame, watching the burn,

But only for a moment.

For soot-stained, threadbare wool holds no heat,

And the feckless wolf has nothing left in the forest it has emptied,

Only the lullaby of its chattering teeth.

Shiver.