If someone had told me that I would end up torn apart by chainsaws, I would never, ever believed that.
This kind of things only happens in horror stories, right?
Right?
Maybe, if only I had paid more attention to that little girl last week things would have gone differently.
I already knew her, she lives nearby and comes to my place from time to time to say hello and enjoy the shadow casted by the trees.
But I should have recognised it as a bad sign
She came, anyways, wearing her usual bracelet made of seeds. I always tought it's a good habit to carry seeds around, but after a while they should be put back in the earth where they belong, otherwise they become sterile, not better than a small stone.
I've always wondered if she knows that. Probably not, she's just a child and I should have told her, but now it's too late.
That day she hugged me, crying hard and babbling something about the construction of a new car park.
Children's nonsense I thought.
I had more important matters to care about. I had to take care of my newborn finches, they're so fragile and they don't know how to fly yet.
Who's going to take care of them, when I will be gone?
Am I really going to die now, barely 60 years old, without even get the chance to see the cherry tree blooming for the last time?
And what about the multitude of insects and mushrooms living and multiplying in the shelter of my roots?
Are those fools going to murder them as well without even aknowledge their existence?
And what about the bees who feed themselves with my flowers? What are they going to eat now?
And the squirrels living in the hollow of my trunk, will they be able to find a new home in this desert made of cement?
With a bit of luck they will be able to survive, though.
They're pretty, the squirrels, and humans usually let them live to flash them with their luminous boxes.
I never understood what they do, but it looks like it doesn't do no harm.
It's a strange light that doens't warm up and I can't feed with it, so it didn't never interested me.
It's not even remotely comparable to sun rays.
I always felt pity for those poor things. So free because their roots are not anchored to the soil and yet, so miserable as they have to kill in order to survive, as they're not able to feed themselves with the rain and the sunlight.
I bear no grudge against them, they're just not able to feel the connection between all things, otherwise I'm sure they would cry all their tears out.
Some, some are still able to feel something. They enjoy the beauty of a butterfly and they can still fear the power of a thunder, but many, many can't.
Apparently they can only destroy, unbounded.
Blinded by their own greed they're cutting my branches, killing me, depriving many other creatures and themselves of my shade, of my nourishing fruits, of the oxigen I produce.
They're the same who used to have fun climbing my branches and to enjoy my shade in the hot summer days, just a few breaths ago.
It's bizzarre: in all other living species adulthood brings wisdom and increased surviving skills.
I wonder why men, instead, end up progressively forgetting what matters.
Maybe the answer resides in their magic boxes.
Enough wandering.
The clock is ticking and I still need to say goodbye to the sun and give my seeds to the wind in the hope that it will bring them far away, beyond the concrete pour.
And that somewhere a new sprout will take root and this life will thrive again.