We knew from the start that their days had been numbered,
those proud, callous people for whom nobody grieves;
one day we'd be light and no longer encumbered
by those who felt nothing for branches and leaves.
They had no respect, no knowledge, no conscience,
cared not for the nights that we bled sap in pain;
knew not of our wisdom, knew not of our sapience,
discarded our health and abused us for gain.
Our leaves contain veins that run rich with our story,
of deserts, of plains, of dales and of hills,
of strong steady oaks in their bountiful glory,
of suffering pines on the way to the mills.
Our branches announce the extent of our beating,
the droughts and the floods we withstood on our own,
the warm happy days that were dismally fleeting,
the sad weeping willow who died all alone.
Our roots tell of waters sucked in from dry mountains,
from deserts with sandstorms and hot humid air,
from flowing white rivers and strong gushing fountains,
from farmlands and graveyards wept wet with despair.
And there they once stood, the ones who would cut us,
the ones who would chop, and would cleave, and would slice;
they used us, abused us, encroached as a fungus;
their lives are now broken, and we will not splice.