What it’s like to be a Tree

I stand in the middle of a busy city, watching people go past, 

I trace my roots to follow them and protect them the best I can, But they may not know.  

When you are a tree, you must stand there for the rest of your life, 

you can’t move away from the gum-spitting teenagers, or the disgusting kissing couples.

Every day, I stand listening to the screams of other trees, being cut down,

Savage humans. I know maybe, one day it’s my turn, so I tell all of my friends:

“Don’t be worried, as we shall grow again in God’s palms, like a newborn baby.”

In return, they're silenced, dead probably, turned to desks, or chairs, paper or toilet paper. 

I know that I will die and have a new life. I may not know who I am then.

Finally, it’s my turn. I’m one hundred and ten years old, and they think I’m a threat. 

I did nothing but grow, trying to get attention, and now I did, but a bad one.

The death bringers come, with their coppers, to cut me down. 

A cut on my waist, another on my forehead, my head feels dizzy.

I miss the beautiful forest, with the tiny deers, rabbits, birds, bears or foxes 

and all the rest of my fellow tree friends, but now, time has changed.

I  feel sad and yet I’m still working. I have felt neglected, yet they don’t understand. 

I wish to speak my mind, yet they hide my roots under the surface.

The only way to gleam a bit of attention is to make my flowers grow in spring,

Then maybe, they will smile and say: “What a beautiful tree.”

Maybe that's what it's like to be a tree.