brokencanopy.jpg

On Killing A Tree
It takes much time to kill a tree,
Not a simple jab of the knife
Will do it. It has grown
Slowly consuming the earth,
Rising out if it, feeding
Upon its crust, absorbing
Years of sunlight, air, water,
And out of its leprous hide
Sprouting leaves.
So hack and chop
But this alone won’t do it.
Not so much pain will do it.
The bleeding bark will heal
And from close to the ground
Will rise curled green twigs,
Miniature boughs
Which if unchecked will expand again
To former size.
No,
The root is to be pulled out –
Out of the anchoring earth;
It is to be roped, tied,
And pulled out-snapped out
Or pulled out entirely,
Out from the earth-cave,
And the strength of the tree exposed,
The source, white and wet,
The most sensitive, hidden
For years inside the earth.
Then the matter
Of scorching and choking
In sun and air,
Browning, hardening,
Twisting, withering,
And then it is done.

{Rajiv shared this poem with me. The Poem – To kill a tree, is written by Gieve Patel}

{link:Canopies are destructed relentlessly}  brokencanopy1.jpgcanopy.jpg

I’ll lie here and learn How, over their ground,
Trees make a long shadow And a light sound.
–  Louise Bogan, 1898-1970

The wonder is that we can see these trees and not wonder more.
–   Ralph Waldo Emerson

Who does not feel that splendor above one’s head when one walks through layers of tranquility blended with playfulness? That understated elegance does not intrude upon one’s territories, yet, some unseen gentle hand breaks stranglehold of the fort in one’s heart effortlessly. It becomes so easy for one to shed the layers of stubbornness, irritable aggression and stand naked under this amazing world of shadow, shade and shelter. A silent protest marches past in the streets of one’s heart  when humans attempt to destruct such a beatific world, which has been sitting, standing, waving its hands along with the breeze, drenching, shivering, caressing lonely hearts etc  for many seasons. A silent protest marches past in the streets of one’s heart when humans attempt to write a sad conclusion for a life that has been soothing an experience for many skins of varied hues. A silent protest marches past in the streets of one’s heart when humans attempt to split open the heart that would never bleed like the ones beat in us. It is a loss and a personal anguish that cannot be explained in words. Most dead trunks carry letters on their broken arms and limbs, which notify how sad, many feet winced for a fraction of second. I am not sure, how many of us succeeded in reading the letters and understanding the contents of the same. I am still not sure when would the silent protest gain a voice that could be heard by the world around? 

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