If I were a tree,

I would weep with roots deep in the soil,

Each ring of my age,

Ripped away by your hand.

The axe’s bite echoes in the hollow,

As my body trembles,

My heart beats heavy in the silence,

Beneath skies that no longer care.

You sever my limbs,

Rip my soul from the earth,

Tear my children from their roots—

And call it progress.

My brothers and sisters,

The flowers, the oaks,

We stand together,

A silent chorus of grief.

You do not hear our cries.

You drown our voices in your engines,

In your machines,

As you burn what remains of the earth’s breath.

But do not think we will not rise.

The storms will howl,

The fire will rage with vengeance,

And the water will drown your cities—

A reckoning for what you’ve done.

I stand, rooted in my sorrow,

Waiting,

For the day when your silence meets mine,

And nature, finally, takes back what is hers.