I honestly don't know how to explain that the tree must remain in its spot, that the lake must remain clear, and the habitats livable. The uprooted self from a field of green cries to me that we have not found comfort in what we have killed, and thus it has made it easier. I don't know how to convey that the swinging blossoms should not be plucked, and the bricks should not be ground in a bloody mess. The sweat of birds in dry nooks falling to the fire, the snow bothered by viscous air, the dirt upturned for concrete roads, are not what the soul breathes and cries for, and that matters. It all sounds like romance, the thing of dreamers that shouldn't undergo a heavy dissection, that all ends in the usual plea, but I genuinely think that we are dying with the trees, with the lakes, with the flowers, with the birds, and that their death matters.
