Am I a life, worth life and soul?
Treated with such care and affection;
yet sparks of stones, will devour me whole.
'Beauty so fragile,'� and without protection.

I stand here, gazing, at what is forever,
in my final hour.
You walk by me, without ever
mourning the death of a flower.

You, you are a life.
And are conscious, yes,
of your own cares and strife.
Yet stronger than I, so it seems, nevertheless.

You rob from me the air,
and honey from the bees.
You steal from me ' without care '
the essence of what am me.

To be in peace, is all I ask,
and though you say you care,
through each of your daily tasks,
you poison me, unawares.

A 'Man'� you label thee,
'The Grand of all that lives.'�
With your eyes, you look down at me,
Ungrateful for what I give.

A 'superior species,'�
your blood is warm, and red.
But though you may speculate 'humanity,'�
It is this blood that you shed.

Your life is fragile as string!
and you treat me like a toy,
You create nothing!
only enemies,

Empires destroy, and are destroyed.
Without Tragedy
mourning the death of a flower.

I have observed you long
during the time I have spent here.
And though you won't know I am gone,
for you, I will shed a tear.

There were few that took the time, in these woods
to stop and smell my scent.
Yet there was not one who had stood
by me when I went.

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