WAIL OF A FORLORN TREE

WAIL OF A FORLORN TREE

Hurt not them, hurt not my children,

Few are left, Oh men leave them alone.

In front of me that they are all grown,

Hacked into pieces now they are all gone.

Their shrieks, Oh god, I couldn’t help but mourn,

In this menacing gloom, I stand forlorn.

To your ancestors we gave bountiful shade,

For you, they chop us and houses they made.

The lush and green, they all have fade,

Soon will wane the woods we once lived.

Those few trees that are left to breath,

Have got a temple or mosque just underneath.

But often it’s not the poor God they sheath,

But those hideous communal fervor and wrath. 

 

And one day, when they’ll sell the poor god,

A merchant will come with an axe and a sword.

In the air you will hear our cries so loud,

And  on mud you will see our limbs so mauled.

The birds won’t sing, the wind won’t breeze,

With no more trees, the planet will freeze.

And inside the house your children will screech,

“We want trees, but not in our dreams”