If tall trees could talk, what would they say? If tall trees could talk, I do not know about you, but I would be a little nervous and a little curious. Oh, and it reminds me of my nervous, curious day in the middle of a great wise oak tree. Listen.
Once I went to play after dinner, and you won’t believe what happened. When I sat at the base of a very large, wide oak; I heard a noise. It was not just a noise, but a voice. This voice was soft, but increased with every creak and whistle in each branch. It seemed that the wind blew down the pipes of an ancient wooden flute. When I put my ear to the trunk of the tree, I felt the sound of sarcasm, as the tree right asked. If I was comfortable lying on his favorite right root. Of course, I was dumbfounded, but could only answer "well, yes, I believe that I am." I retreated nervously. At that very moment, the acorn, as if sent by a large oak tree, fell to the ground to strike me directly in the head. “Ah,” I exclaimed! Then the voice immediately asked me to sit down and relax and prepare for a long story. I decided to sit down; after all, trees usually do not speak as people understand it. Despite this, I was intrigued and ready to learn valuable knowledge from this oak of the ages; and I was able and willing to listen to what I had to say.
The air suddenly rose, and the big oak exclaimed: “Thank you for taking the time to sit down and listen.” “Most people do not listen today!” “You understand that I have been sitting here on this earth for four hundred and forty-two years, and you are the first?” “Call it luck, call it fate, say what you are gifted, say what you want but you seem to hear my words, and this is my moment, like yours. ” I was truly surprised, to say the least, and, of course, I was glad to receive the insight and wisdom that could be drawn from such an endless opportunity, so I told the oak tree to tell me more! "
“I wanted you to know, said oak”, that four and a half centuries ago, like a little acorn, I fell from an oak tree much less than I, who was sitting right where this highway runs now. It must have been a drop, about thirty or forty feet. Interestingly, I landed on the head of a person who is significantly different from today! He had skin, feathers, and some kind of red skin. It was a much simpler time, and almost all people, although very few, seemed to hear everything that the trees said. When they listened, we felt safe. When they listened, we could count on our survival. In fact, this young red man had long planted me near a tree in this exact place where I am root! He spent the time to put me on life ... he took the time to nature. So instead of just becoming a protein lunch, I'm here a century later; a column in your area; fortified survivor after industrialization and expansion! "Wow, I exclaimed, I never realized your journey." “Tell me more!” Well, as I said, for centuries there have been many friendly people living in this area. They were very calm and led simple lives. The only thing I always remembered was that they always ventured back when they took something from us trees, from animals or something else for that matter. We were safe in this relationship. Over time, everything changed. Everything has changed. First, other people started moving around my forest. Always loud sounds. Their skin was lighter than white, and they did not speak or act in the same way. Although many seemed very sweet; some were not. These people did not get along well with those who lived so many peaceful years in my forest. I myself witnessed many treaties and peace agreements between these new people with lighter skin and people with red skin. These agreements have never been implemented; many continued to die among forest fields before disease and controversy. Red skinned people were executed for my forest; how we were sad and the willows wept. It seemed to some that the forest was worth killing. Therefore, for decades they deserved a bloody end. Usually people with lighter skin took part and expanded. At that time I was just a small tree, and I can only remember to survive the cold winters. I have seen many of these lighter-skinned people die of cold and hunger; but they kept going. I have witnessed many of my oaks, maples, birch and pine brothers, carved from living soil. They were neatly stowed on four sides, and people lived in their structure. Some called them houses; I called them a dark fate. Many of us, too, were burned alive to sustain these foreign visitors, and with every beating or cry of teeth I screamed.
Years later, lighter-skinned people cut paths through my family and friends and began riding horses through them. As broken, we felt so helpless to do nothing; our safety is lost. Soon a lot of screams and fights over something called taxation without representation; and then chaos broke out. Do not pay attention to life, as if I had never seen. Many in red and blue fought for my forest. So many people died in my forest. The buzzards themselves and the birds that lived on my branches were now wading through the battlefields of death for a painful meal. How sad it was to see so many dead. Lives again put up with disagreements. Their blood drained the earth and made my leaves wither. “I was worried about what I heard, but thinking that such a circumstance took place right outside my house, and I never realized its existence!” “Go on, I said, tell me a bigger oak tree!”
Well, after a few years something terrible happened. Although I saw some people who were very dark in skin color because they grow in numbers, they became even worse. They were treated less than white skin dogs. With a bird's eye, I pierced my forest into a large, planted field in which those dark-skinned people were whipped and fought while they were working in the scorching sun. I was so worried, I bought to cover them with my branch for a shady rest. I was restrained only by my planted roots; but inside me an angry squeaking doe is waiting. One night I heard dogs splashing across a foggy field. They came closer to chase the kuna. However, they did not chase the kuns or any animals; but a black man. Behind him were white men with shimmering torches in the night and gloomy hatred among their faces. With such a nerve, amid a shining moon, they captured this man and tried to hang it on my branch. I could not stand such a murder. When they tied a rope around my branch and removed the horse under my feet, I held it for a moment. When people and dogs are gone; I broke my branch. After a moderate amount of choking, that dark skin man ran free. I realized that physically he was temporarily free; but in his mind and the minds of others, he continued to fight for his freedom. If you look closely, you can still see the scar that I received from this broken branch, starting from previous years. Remember the wary friend; scars always remain when evil people mix up.
Shortly before a man named Abraham Lincoln did everything he could to free people of dark skin. In the same way, the most bloody war still erupted. It was just a war over right and wrong; but it would not be so easy. We are like trees, however; maple, oak, pine or birch could only look in horror. Canons, horses, soldiers of blue and gray. They bought and died; women and children. It was terrible. “Listening to the great story of the oaks, I was in tears and could barely utter a word to the big oak.” "What's next, I tensed to ask." One day in the early evening a detachment of soldiers tied his shelter to my trunk. They sat in the fire camp; with dark words that I heard. One soldier spoke about his brother, who is fighting for the liberation of slaves, and as if he gave a chance, he would take the life of his brothers. Another soldier spoke of his hatred of dark-skinned people, and if he had been given a chance, he would have killed the first thing he found. Another soldier rubble dies at my very chest, near your seat. He fought a wound in battle and killed in agony. He died that morning, and his comrades fought. When they moved to their next positions, I thought that the higher and higher I grew, the more human blood ran through my roots. It seemed that my height could not catch the big darkness growing in such a world where beauty was clearly possible. When the wind blew in these terrible years, we, the trees, prayed with every wind that the war would end; and the captive would be free. We, the trees, could not spend another life on our branch as a murder weapon. In the twinkling hopes that the war was over and legally these dark-skinned people were physically free. As with any evil plan; killing these people will not end until more blood is shed.
Do you hear that train in the distance? "Of course, I exclaimed, he comes through the city three times a day, in the morning, in the afternoon and at night." Yes, that's right, but do you know why this is happening? Having rooted here, I watched these railways become a reality. Men dreamed about it, and then built it; most of them, however, were not the light-skinned people whom I once spoke of, but the people whom whites called yellow. Yellow people, as they often called, built this railway. I witnessed this. Falling, sweating, bleeding, and working all day and night. They, like others, were also treated less than dogs or animals. And yet they built so much, helped with many on these lands, as well as others, were also killed and exploited for whom they were. Thus, since those people who still fear for their safety and life, as in the case of industrialization and technology, there are oaks, maples, pines and birch. I witnessed the reflection of those people of flowers who live in the lives of my fellows.
The struggle for freedom for those dark and yellow skin people continued, as well as for others. “Do you remember those red men I spoke of earlier?” “Yes, I remember,” well they continued the struggle between these lands. I remember that over the years many children of these nations were taken away. They were collected as fresh sprouts for fire. The fire that would burn so many of these nations. After taking these children from their parents, I remember how light-skinned people marching these children from school to school, outside of this forest. However, I could hardly glance; that was enough. I heard these people tell these children that they were not. People with light skin shaved the heads of children and regularly beat them. When they finished years later, I was still there, but there were no children. They were empty shell; grew up in a world in which no one accepted them. Even their own mothers and fathers abandoned them. In the end, many people do not need a rope and a tree by white men to remove their lives; the teachings were enough, and many years died at the hands of themselves after years; Entropy was their end. Before we found out, small strange moving vehicles came that people drove from place to place. Shortly thereafter, the execution of my relatives became widespread. The path after the path, and the poisoning mist, sometimes arising in combination with the disgusting rain, which faded my leaves. We, the trees, were choking with concern, fearing for our lives. Soon housing and industry began to spread widely. Some of how we, the trees, felt that these buildings and other devices were our brothers, who were selected to destroy them and squeeze them into something brighter people considered more useful; and it was also for those people of color.
In the course of my last hundred rings, grief enveloped me. There was a great war; more than man ever has ever experienced. In your area, so many men have left, and many have not returned. Behind me is a graveyard where so many people returned to what some have called the box.
Soon after, another war began. It was so terrible that there was not enough men for so long, and most women had to work. People put yellow ribbons around my oaks and shot them when people returned. Fortunately, while there were no men, the woman proved that they can work and earn a living in order to survive; it fed itself, which was starving. When the men came home; there was a big celebration, but everything was not so good.
Over the years, very dark-skinned people have some victories, as well as other people with color. I heard them on a new asphalt road, yards from my roots. I overheard one man that a man named Mr. Brown went to court against the Department of Education to fight for his colored daughters to attend school in its rightful place. Mr Brown won, and I heard greetings on many sides of the hill. Even more, like a firestorm, victory triggered a violent movement. It was not for long, and many began to march along your street, using my branches and scars, where a few years ago someone was full. They would carry signals and repeat statements of unity and anger. There was a wonderful sound of hope in their voice. Especially, one person who had a dream. Someone killed this man as before. His dream, although not dead with him.
Moreover, I have seen so much. Every family or person who moved into this forest has become a neighborhood. I witnessed the circumstances of the division of the family, the growth of children, death and the creation of other families. It never ends, and with this endless cycle I witnessed a cycle not to appreciate and not to love others. Nature was ignored. When time moves forward, what will happen to me or others? Will they love those who have been persecuted for so long? Today I see so much hopelessness, so much despair. When even the most vulnerable; woman, children and those veterans who fight your wars are ignored and homeless! If life is only for ourselves, we are doomed.
In the distance, I heard my mother call me for dinner. I jumped up, wiped my eyes and waved my bottom. “Thank you, oak tree, for your stories,” I exclaimed, “I walked over and picked up this acorn, which a few hours ago had landed on my head. I found a shallow area next to the room for growth. I planted an acorn in dark soil, and, embracing it, I thought about the future, about the coming centuries and how I grew up listening today. What would this acorn say about me, that time and the scene that it can capture like a big oak tree? Others will even allow him to grow up to tell stories in which to tell? I'm not sure. However, I must take action. I have to do my part to give nature a chance to live, and a chance to tell ... if others listen. As I approached my porch and into my house, I heard a thunderous sound. As the sky fell; but it was something more. This great oak fell through a nearby highway, stopping traffic in a jam that was never known. It seemed that this mighty oak finally said. He left his mark in time; he gave up his feelings to retire, like many other lives that he saw in his timeless existence, which also fell. The natural process, as he knew, would finally say; the great oak could not hold back. He wanted to say; stop your blind progress and find out that I exist, that there is a past, and horror must be rejected to prevent the miserable end of others and even myself.
These are my last words.
Copyright2006 / - Compassionpwr@juno.com
Posted by LJ Riley Jr.
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