Oh how the soul of the tree must sing
when it reaches a hight of two hundred feet.
Oh how the rain splashes down
and the wind lashes out,
but the tree only shivers
and stretches its branches
embracing the storm.
And moonlight trickles
through bark-coated fingers
and soft leafy hair.
A tall, stong silhouette
creaks with a sigh of bliss,
it's gnarled, knotted eyes
keeping watch on the forest.
But deep inside the tree's great soul,
lies a feeling, a certainty
and it knows
and it waits
for an impending doom.
When that axe struck,
when the trunk cracked
and the bark flew
the tree did not scream,
nor did it cry as it fell,
it merely fell.
And as I stood by,
watching the murder
I couldn't help but wonder
if it felt any pain.