The Womb We Wounded

Behold the ancient tree, in silence grown,
Whose arms once cradled kingdoms of its own;
It fed our breath with whispers soft and pure,
And sheltered us when nothing else was sure.

Though storms have torn its bark and winter’s rage
Has carved its sorrow through each living age,
Still does it bow to greet the passing child—
A mother’s grace, unbroken, meek, and mild.

We rest beneath its shade with careless grace,
Unseeing tears that stain its rugged face;
For every leaf that falls in gentle sigh
Is but a prayer we never hear nor try.

Men cleave its limbs with iron’s hardened song,
Calling their cruelty progress, brave and strong;
Yet little know they how the forests bleed,
Or how the earth keeps count of every deed.

O faithless sons of soil, blind and vain,
Ye trade her warmth for cold metallic gain;
And in your hands, once young with nature’s bloom,
Ye hold the very blade that digs her tomb.

She bore us all within her sacred womb,
Nursed us with rivers, mountain milk, and bloom;
Yet lo—how swiftly gratitude decays,
When profit’s shadow clouds our fleeting days.

But mark this truth the winds forever tell:
A mother’s love forgives—but not too well.
For when her breath grows thin, her veins run dry,
No cradle shall remain for us to lie.

And we, who stabbed the womb from which we came,
Shall bear the ashes of our own dark shame;
For none may kill the hand that gave them birth
And hope to find a future on this earth.

And when the last great forest breathes its last,
When oceans choke on memories of the past,
Then shall the earth rise up in silent wrath,
And sweep mankind from her forsaken path.

For children who betray their mother’s core
Shall find her mercy barred forevermore;
And in the dusk of all we failed to save,
We’ll learn the cost of digging nature’s grave.

Let steel lament, let fallen empires weep—
For she, once gentle, shall no longer keep
The wounds we carved within her dying frame—
And all our tomorrows
shall return to flame.