Poem of a Dying Forest

At first, it’s the leaves;

they fall and fall so silently,

like drizzle making way for sun.

The animals don’t bother,

for the leaves always return,

right?

… right?

Over the years,

crowns are lain down—

Branches sweep away,

the wind brings them to death,

their earthly grave.

Earth benefits at first;

these roots are its very soul,

screeching and shining.

It takes a lifetime to see

how the forests aren’t lush anymore,

merely bones and solitary leaves—

like a thriving village

is gradually abandoned

when people leave for cities.

Roots exchange a poem,

one of death and demise;

that’s what they lived with for centuries.

Another lifetime gone,

more graves buried,

the forest remains still.