The Voice Beneath the Dust

From a lone tree, somewhere forgotten

They think I am the last.
The last sentinel in a land that once danced with green.
They see my twisted trunk, my cracked limbs, and call this place barren.
But they do not know the names I remember.
They do not hear what hums beneath.

Beneath your bulldozers and your borrowed time,
a forest waits.
A whole world — breathing, listening, aching to return.
Not dead.
Dormant.

You paved the riverbeds and called it progress.
You ripped up roots and called it yield.
You burned what you feared and worshipped what you built,
and still you asked why the rain no longer came.

You speak of dominance, as if that word could fill your lungs.
You forgot that you, too, are made of soil and breath.
You forgot the ancient covenant between leaf and light.

But I remember.
I remember the whisper of saplings beneath my shadow,
the chatter of mycelium carrying warnings and welcomes.
I remember the underground network — the underground forest,
asleep beneath your scorched conclusions.
A thousand stumps still dreaming of return.
You see desolation. I see latency.

There was a time you might have listened.
Not with machines or metrics —
but with humility.

Still, it is not too late.
The roots remember.
Call back the rain.
Let the wind return with seeds in her hair.

Leave the land alone long enough,
and it will teach you how to heal.

But you must first lay down your need to own it.
You must let the world grow wilder than your plans.