Do you think the trees can hear us
as we walk beneath their boughs?
Softly treading all around them;
morning mist touching their brows.
Do you think that they can feel us
treading the earth over their roots?
Do they understand our language,
or, to them, are we just mutes?
We can’t understand their whispers,
or know what makes them ache.
Do they sit in eternal slumber,
or are they constantly awake?
You can hear them all around us.
Can they hear us living too?
As we touch or sit around them,
do they feel it like we do?
As we whisper them our secrets,
do they listen on, intent?
Or do they simply slumber onwards
and ignore what we have sent.
As we climb up in their branches,
do they join in with our games?
Or do they wish we were not there,
and that they, alone, remain.
As they grow up all around us,
do they remember what we do?
Will they carry this on with them,
when our numbers become few?
I hope that they can hear us,
in everything we say,
and know how vital that they are,
in each and every way.
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