Forests can be seen as darkly
forbidding as we bid them be–
horrors. We've bid. Uselessly, I’ve wished them be
more than the threatened lesson we,
for us, bade them be.
Lore has it we,
or they, long before we
born to cities came to be,
wore threadless cloaks born of trees.
Torn branches went with us, spitefully
shorn of their leaves. Millennia later, we,
born to cities, can't leave them be.
Born to cities, we,
bored by leaves, still tear them from trees.
Torn by us to cities
born, their sticks are now lifelessly
born afar to the cities we
bored out from their trees.
Torn from them then born afar to these cities,
more lifelessness sticks to what we see.
Born to lifeless cities,
more sticks are wistfully
torn for our wishes life could be
more than what we see. When no more can be
torn by it, maybe then we’ll be
born less by our life-lessening wish for a more-to-be.