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Three Blind Mice

They ran the furrow
without sight,
chasing a sound
they could not name.

No harvest waited,
no granary opened—
only the blade,
sharpened in silence.

The rhyme was meant for children,
but the lesson was older:
to move without seeing
is to trust the hand
that sets the trap.

Storms may pass,
drought may harden the soil,
yet malice waits patient,
more certain than weather.

And so the chorus lingers,
not playful,
not kind,
but a warning sung soft:
three blind mice,
three blind steps,
and the knife already drawn.

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