In the heart of the forest, silent and deep,
Lies a tale of the fallen, their secrets to keep.
Once proud and majestic, they stood tall and free,
Now they whisper their sorrow, the lament of the tree.
Beneath the emerald canopy, they danced with the breeze,
Leaves shimmering like gold in the dappled sun’s tease.
But the chainsaw’s cruel bite and relentless song,
Left them scarred and broken, their lives tragically wrong.
In the stillness of twilight, their spirits still mourn,
For the homes of the birds and the creatures, now torn.
Their rings held stories of ages gone by,
Of storms they had weathered, under the endless sky.
They weep for the rivers, the streams, and the rills,
For the soil that once cradled their roots, now stills.
The forest grows thinner, its heartache profound,
As they sigh in the moonlight, their voices resound.
Let us heed this lament, let us learn from their plight,
To cherish the trees and protect them with might.
For their sacrifice whispers, a plea in the breeze,
To preserve Mother Earth, her wonders and trees.
The Poems I Never Wrote 