The​‍​‌‍​‍‌​‍​‌‍​‍‌ Wound through Axe

My​‍​‌‍​‍‌​‍​‌‍​‍‌ Dearest Son, I am writing to you from the riverbeds of sand,

where water used to caress the shore, but now fire consumes the land,

Are you able to remember the time before your heart turned to stone?

When my soil was the only playground that you ever knew?

You were sleeping under the shade of the green trees, a palace pure and deep,

Before the walls of brick and steel made you to modern sleep.

I was your first and truest home, the bosom where you would lie,

Before the humming cooling-vents shut out the open sky.

I was the mother feeding you with grain from my goldern muddy veins,

I manufactured the cotton for the clothes that kept you from the cold, rain and pains.

I cooled you with a thousand leaves to beat off the summer heat,

I gave you life to breathe in before your heart could beat.

Though now, when I look at you, my son, I see a stranger’s face,

You walk around with pride but without love inside this holy place.

I sense the stabbing even in my roots when the blade is close,

The metal transition goes all the way down and the silence of scare arose.

The cutting of trees in the forest far is not only a sound of work,

It is the breaking of my bone with a merciless and brutal jerk.

You call it “timber” for your trade, a “resource” to be sold,

I call it my own dear arm, a story to be told.

I call it the brain that used to be mine, now it is cut down on the floor,

A house changed to heap of stones, a past that will not be ​‍​‌‍​‍‌​‍​‌‍​‍‌anymore.

You erect your buildings of glass that reach the sky but are thin,

Yet still you sever the roots of the trees always need to overcome sin.

And when the earth starts to shake beneath your heavy steps,

Do not take it as my wrath, or my anger showing deaths.

It is the flesh that is giving way, the tears of the falling rain,

It is not revenge, my son, it is my trembling ​‍​‌‍​‍‌​‍​‌‍​‍‌ through pain.