How they murdered acacia trees

Two acacias grew by my window,
Two beautiful creatures -
A shelter for birds in the snow,
Or heat- in the summers,
А constant joy for the whole neighborhood.
In June, late at night,
I would come out on a balcony
To see them silently conjure their magic -
Filling the air with an exquisite fragrance
No Parisian perfume could match.
 
By mere appearance of acacias
You could tell they were wise trees,
Their branches had the artistic forms   
Like those drawn by Hokusai, or Durer.
Like the living art they stood,
But they were more than art -
They were alive,
And life transcends art, 
Have you noticed that?
 
One morning I saw the large excavator
By my window,
Began digging the ground and
Hoist soil onto the truck.
The excavator stood right by the acacia trees
And, at every scoop,
It reaped the crust of the trees
Displaying pale green flesh.
I heard acacias scream.

The excavator was reaping the trees all day long,
And the days that followed.
I became enraged, shouting,
"You, bastard, stop! or I'll kill you".
But he, in a cabin, chuckled.
 
The trees were hurting, and my soul
Was getting darker.
I prayed that they had mercy and stop.
But they kept on clearing the space for a parking lot,
One that was meant for a "beauty salon".
Life has become empty
Just like that view from my window.
I lost something very dear to me:
Two silent creatures that were making my life brighter.
And my soul became darker since then.



May 2001