If a tree could speak,
What would it say?
Would it tell tales,
From times long gone,
When a little boy climbed and took its fruit,
Or when a woman found shade, in the hot summer days.
Maybe it would talk about its friends,
Lizards as colourful as kaleidoscopes,
Squirrels hiding as if they played hide and seek,
Butterflies resting on its branches in mesmerizing grace.
Perhaps it would talk about men,
Suffocating it with their poisonous gasses,
Trimming its limbs to mimic some sort of abstract perfection,
Burning its body with hellish flames.
What would a tree say?
What would the Earth say,
As we turn its lungs into mortal machines,
Making the green fade to gray?