The Trees Are Talking

The trees are talking, whispers thin,
Of blades and axes cutting in.
Their leaves now fall in silent dread,
As roots are torn from earthen bed.

They speak of shade that once was cast,
Of forests tall, and shadows vast.
They mourn the birds, the beasts that flee,
Once sheltered safe in canopy.

Where once they stood in mighty rows,
The stumps now lie, their voices low.
The soil grows bare, the rivers dry,
And smoky winds obscure the sky.

"Who will breathe if we are gone?"
They ask the dawn, they ask the dawn.
In every crack and broken limb,
They plead for life, though hope grows dim.

So listen close, the trees still cry,
For all we lose, for all that dies.
The trees are talking, don’t pretend—
They know the start; they see the end.