Murderers!
Mercenaries, paid to kill for their supper.
We cannot escape.
With treacherous weapons
They close in.
Rooted;
Strong but defenceless.
Unable to help our dying friends.
We hear their boughs crack.
Laughing lumberjacks
Don’t hear their screams;
Our torment!
And yet,
My wisdom of my grand old age,
I’m sure they mean no harm.
Part of the Earth,
Yet apart from the earth,
They do not realise
They are not alone in having feelings;
Desire to live,
To feel the sun.
They work, they toil;
They laugh.
We scream, we crack;
We fall.
When the day is done;
No forest left to meet the sun.
No leaves
To freshen the evening breeze.
Logs, our corpses,
Strewn in the dust;
The forest
Lies flat
And brown
And dead.