When the clearing grows wider than the forest, When the primeval beings become dead space, When desolation fills the heart of the artist, Then perhaps humans might reverse their pace. I have been missing you, my dead friends. You were the muse that had made me see That the world was not built out of aesthetic sense But from a chaos linking earth and sky: trees. Some nights I dream of your trunk, bark and leaves, I witness the wonders that your foliage shelters. Some sights show me your beings being heaved Out of earth by the human eraser. That's unbearable to see a forested place Being exterminated for money reasons. It's a war that leaves me out of space, Confused, lost, in ethnocentric season.