Cut down

Children of a god each tree, its name now a country, red as blood and native skin
Men and deities sold, toppled in search of gold, a battle of sin they could not win
Pao-brasil so slow to grow, centuries come and go before it reaches the sky
Its seed a thorny bean, leaves of feathers green, reaches fifteen meters high
Wood a vibrant vermillion, once numbered in the million, by loggers cut and fell
Flowers yellow with center red as if the wood had bled color and aromatic smell
With the natives it is gone, survivors decorate a garden's lawn, now a civilized tree
Its stolen heart now a cathedral beam or dyed art, a past dream only a memory