A POEM
Beneath the locust tree, the thorn remembers.
Not the leaf, nor the branch,
but the blood it once tasted,
The oath it once pricked.
We forget.
The thorn does not.
Each vow whispered in anger,
each promise carved in love,
each betrayal buried in silence—
The thorn carries them all.
So beware the thicket:
it hums not with wind,
but with memory.
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