At first the wind said to him: here I will sow you
to keep the times from your evergreen
don't lose their compass.
Then, the lumberjacks came into the story:
Conquerors and ignorant, and victors and strangers
He brought forth fruit from sorrow, blood to be divided equally
to Eve, to Adam and to the Serpent
but above all to the creatures that we built the garden with
of Eden without being given any name,
permanently stolen from God,
permanently crucified by man.
Then silence for years as they cut it down.
Times were mixed, light and darkness were separated
And that alone holds Atlas in its entrails.
Until, motionless, he saw the liquid cement approaching him.
He stirred, rolled up his sleeves,
Here were the gates of his warmth
as genocide approached for him and his children.
Then again silence, famine and disease,
and a place in the desert under its branches
to be vindicated, to rest.
and above all to remind.
They thought he was dead,
But this under the paving stones
It held the city in its branches.
The poem was written for the TIF Metropolitan Park
photo Bessi, https://pixabay.com
