The Tree

It did not weep
did not plead for mercy
nor complain.
It fell silently,
the tree.

~~~

My hands,
yellow as its flesh
dripping white blood,
shuddering with
the deafening sound
of the chainsaw.
I’m the tree
and the one
who kills it.

~~~

Its blood was white.
We took away its rouge
and the greenery of its leaves.

~~~

Before the adieu,
it left me its shade,
leaves and straws for
the birds’ nests
and the last seed,
in the dried palms
of the earth’s hands.

In the seed
the mysteries of
life and death.
The day they had come
to mark red on its forehead,
it knew they would be back
soon, to behead it.

~~~

When a tree is decapitated
before the eyes of other trees
how do they feel?

When I asked this question to the trees,
in response, they stood silent
with their heads down.

~~~

They came,
took down the tree,
the sun moved to the west
and everyone left.
Only the earth remained
and me, motionless
where the tree stood once,
filled with joy and gratitude.

~~~

Was it just a coincidence
that the tree died before my eyes?
Or had it been waiting for me
as one awaits the loved ones
in final days?
Before breathing its last,
it gave me an inheritance of an epic.

~~~

Have you ever seen
the execution of a tree?
It is said that the tree
weeps all night
before the day it dies.
It knows the meaning of
the red dot on its chest.

~~~

The grass wasn’t here.
It was seeded.
Once a tree lived on this ground.
The grass is a green stole
on its tomb.

~~~

The day it’s born brings joy.
When it grows—gives flowers, fruits, and shade.
And someday, its life.
My desk is the bare chest of a fallen tree.
Laying my head on it, I can hear its heartbeats.
And leaning on the shoulders of
every window and door of my home,
I can listen to all the forests on earth
weeping together.