Old and twisted, it stands resolute. It’s wood seemingly petrified. Hardened in death by sun and air, still it seems to possess some life.
How long did it stand, feeling the breeze flow over it’s branches? The sun rising and falling, as it watched, silent.
The pyramids were being built and it had already watched for centuries, it’s view unchanging.
If I looked long enough, could I glimpse it’s face? Could I ask of it what it had seen, what it had felt, with it’s roots in the soil and it’s branches tasting the breeze.
Would it’s face show sorrow? Forever frozen on it’s hardened wood. Having witnessed all the atrocities of man.
It was there when Rome ruled the world, it was there for the poison gases of the trench warfare, it was there for the bombs over Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
With every event overshadowing the previous. Where are we poised now? In this latest push for control of our lives and others.
If, in it’s remains, there still exists some life, does it cry for what comes?
I know I do.
About the Creator
Katie
Really just an amateur trying my hand at this.
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