Rolling
multi- col oured and velveteen
landscapes depict the stage of trees. A majesty to behold.
A splash of gold. A sweep of emerald. Some scarlet patches. Poise
violet tucked in between. As continuous as the colours in the rainbow.
This composes the seasonal landscape. A theatre of peace and calm, sca
ttered aimlessly as cattle. Herding across the fields, beside the lake, be
neath the fluffy clouds. Creatures of nature climb up and nestle on its branches. W
ell hidden from everyone. Miles away. Trees swaying, whispering, rustling, quiv
ering. Surpassing the ages in sprightly dance. Surviving the wind, rain, thundersto
rm. Like soldiers in formation-so proud and handsome. Like arms reaching out embrac
ing the air. For centuries yielding us an abundance of fire, food and joy.
Older than we, memorial tree, mysterious and idolized, callously utilized, b
eg our pardon, ancient trees, for our petty offense. But why must they
be cut down? For trunks, branches and the leaves were cut and spl
it and chopped and defiled into these chips of wood. And now
there are trees no more. Come back to us trees, to
the desolate places, rekindling a world
so soured and seared.
Of ages plunder. B
ring back the wo
nder, the joyful
trees, the gran
deur of trees.
And the whisp
ering forests in
which we were
reared. Trees to
renew and to re
vitalize and clean
se. Cities crowded,
atmosphere deflowe
red. Branches upraised
to admire and to beautify.
Elegant and strong, comp
osing the wind for a song. Bring
back the trees and the world shall not fail.
