THE LAST TREE

I was born in a forest that once sang.

Dawn would rise through the mist, birds would spill into the sky like verses of a poem, and rain would dance upon our leaves. The earth was gentle then, breathing softly, nurturing quietly. I grew among thousands, maybe millions, of my kind. Together, we stitched shade into the sunlight and turned dust into life.

But then you came, the builders of walls, the dreamers of glass and steel. You called it progress. I called it a slow dying.

You carved roads through our roots, laid concrete where rivers used to hum, and named it development. You replaced the songs of cuckoos with the sirens of cars, and the scent of wet soil with fumes and smoke. You built towers so tall they kissed the clouds, yet forgot how to feel the wind on your face.

You cut us not out of hunger but out of habit. You burned forests to plant malls, turned groves into graveyards, and named our ashes “real estate.” You printed books about sustainability on the corpses of our brothers. You made laws to protect us, then signed them sitting on polished wooden desks made from our bodies.

I have watched the seasons disappear. The rains came late, the soil cracked, the birds stopped returning. The rivers that once mirrored my reflection now run shallow and grey. One by one, the others fell - my friends, my forest, my family.

Now I stand alone, the last voice of green in a world that forgot how to listen. My roots reach into poisoned ground, my branches stretch toward a silent sky. I can still hear the heartbeat of the earth, faint and fading like a dying drum beneath the noise of your cities.

You taught your children to build, not to plant. You taught them to own, not to nurture. And when the last seed turned to dust, you asked the heavens why the rain no longer came.

I do not seek your pity, only your remembrance. For when I fall, the silence will be final. No wind will sing, no rain will whisper, no morning will rise with promise.

I am the last tree on earth. And when I go, I will take with me the memory of your first breath and the echo of your last.

This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon 2025