– spferdberg

If you look at them from far away,
A peaceful dance of shadows,
A seascape with a hundred sails,
All scattered on the meadows.

But when you go, as night falls down,
Prepare your evening pillows,
Hush! And you will notice that
There’s whisper in the willows.

In gallant robes of green they move
And gather by a campsite.
A new bloom has grown on their land,
Competing for the sunlight.

The dark oak lifts his head up high
And has his crown adjusted.
With solemn voice he boldly speaks:
“They are not to be trusted.”

He recalls recent massacres,
Remembers friends combusted,
Whole family lines were hacked to shreds,
Some spruces look disgusted.

Who is this unseen enemy?
What drives it to such cruelty?
To stand and fight back this new threat
All take an oath of fealty.

The duke of spruces rises up
And takes the floor, all gallant.
To summon words of bravery
He had a special talent.

“They’ve made a weapon we can’t fight,
That’s custom-made to kill us:
A shiny blade with evil grin,
A brachial bacillus.”

“My fellow trees, they swiftly rush
Through our midst and slay us,
We have to make a move on them,
Or else they will betray us.”

“The corpses of our friends and foes,
Stacked up in grotesque manner.
All different tribes of trees must now
Unite under one banner!”

Their manes sway softly in the wind,
All nod in quiet approval.
Trees serious and dignified,
Awaiting their removal.

The birch, all bashful, lifts her head
And makes a shy confession:
“The two-legged folks, with all their faults,
They’re masters of progression.”

An uproar shakes the canopy,
Outragéd angry rustle.
“Explain yourself, young birchen friend,
Or feel my wooden muscle!”

The birch, all pensive for a while,
Considers how to highlight
There is some good in humankind,
Albeit sometimes in twilight.

“They plant young saplings, water them,
Make sure they are promoted.
Without them, would we be here now,
On soil that lay eroded?”

A few trees nod, most shake their heads,
There’s murmur, fissling, splutter.
The birch, she stands alone with few,
Most trees still vote for slaughter.

“An era where we face our end
Is not the time for truces.
We have to fight and not look back.”
So speaks the duke of spruces.

The night becomes decidual
And ends in wild confusion.
As sunlight peeks around the hill,
There is no clear conclusion.

The human kind, a mystery
To beings of wood and leaves.
What creature would both plant the seed,
Then kill what it recieves?

Our spirit and our gentleness,
It is from them not hidden.
Our briefness and barbarity,
They’ve seen the horse it’s ridden.

They look like they’re not moving much,
You think they can’t be thinking.
While we haste after daily dues,
The hearts of trees are sinking.

They wonder who on Earth we are,
And what’s our common praxis?
What will we bring when we return,
Our bonemeal or our axes?


Comments are closed.