I stood where the treeline used to breathe, Sap still warm on the broken leaves; Distant saws wept into the air, Their metal grief too sharp to bear. I watched the soil cough up its past, Ring by ring unspooled too fast, And every branch that slumped in rain Carried a memory carved in pain. The wind tried speaking through the gaps, But nothing answered back. And I swear the forest knew our steps, Knew every dream we once had kept; Even as the fires called our claim, It whispered fragments of our names. I stood there helpless in the flame— A witness with no vow to tame, Hearing roots cry through the dark As the forest dimmed its spark. A fox fled past with haunted eyes, Carrying echoes of its dying cries; The river choked on ash and clay, A tongue of silver gone to grey. I wrote the moment in my chest, A truth no time could dispossess, And felt the land beneath my feet Lose one more echo to defeat. I saw the forest call for help, But no one listened but myself; Its final plea cut through the rain— A whisper trembling like a vein. If silence buried every tree, Its wounds still bled through memory, Marking me with all its blame As the forest spoke our names. I traced the stumps like fallen bones, Kept vigil with the earth alone; I learned that endings speak in rust, In quiet roots, in dying dust. A witness walking through the ache— Unable to give back what we take. And when the last green breath withdrew, I felt it pass straight through me too; I hold its sorrow in my frame, A vow engraved in embered flame. Even when the world forgets, The forest keeps our silhouettes— And somewhere in its fading veins, It still remembers our names.
