And the Toad Hears Nothing
Hopping through the soundless forest on a dim, starless eve,
A toad stares into a darkness that no one dares believe;
For the woods ahead are leaden with an uncertainty,
And the heavier it falls, the toad feels anxiety.
He now cries aloud, thus hoping to stir something;
But the toad waits and waits—and the toad hears nothing.
Neither wind, nor waking critter, croons—
Not a soul hearkens to this toad’s tunes.
He sees only a shroud of shade enveloping all,
Smothering the heavens and earth—how it does appall!
Again cries the toad, wishing to stir anything;
But the toad waits and waits—and the toad hears nothing.
Why has the wilderness deadened with such haste?
With poison, is the heavy atmosphere laced?
What infinite veil drapes this desolate dale?
Where flows the onlooker’s blood when he grows pale?
Thrice now cries the toad, hopeful another might sing;
But the toad waits and waits—and the toad hears nothing.
There is no breeze—and neither cricket nor whippoorwill;
It seems that the land ahead is accursed and ill.
When starlight is choked and moonrays are stolen—
The clouds press down farther—murky and swollen.
The toad cries again, yet his resounding trills sting.
Now aghast, he hops away—troubled and fleeing.
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