A browned tree hangs low
Mourning the slow death of life.
Forgotten Grandfather of the forest,
I am too young to understand
The weight age puts upon your shoulders.
I hope you can forgive.
No. Not yet. You can never forgive.
My generation’s lids hang low.
Not a mark lies on our bronzed shoulders.
We take so lightly this thing you call life.
No poet, teacher or priest will help us understand
Our lives, our animals, our forest.
Such secrets and wonders in our forest.
Forgetting its power you must forgive,
For it is too wondrous for today to understand.
While your still branches reach high, our eyes sink low
In the illusion that movement is life.
If only we raised our shoulders,
Our limp lazy shoulders,
We would learn the untolds of the forest.
For in the old trees there is life,
The life of centuries Time had to forgive.
Our past is not dead, by low, by low,
Our past lives in the wood, you understand.
But our wood is without a mouth, understand,
It has arms, legs, waist and shoulders,
But no mouth to whisper low
Of the battles upon ground and forest.
Can our ancients forgive
Those who on this land took life?
And rejoice in those who’ve made life?
No, today will not hear it nor understand.
We are dumb and blind. Please unto us forgive.
Not until we are old and wise, can we lighten your shoulders,
My dear, old friend, my Forest,
Don’t droop and sigh so low.
I will grow old and learn, dear Forest,
I will fashion ears and hear you speak of this life
I will, with time, begin to understand.