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.