I will wait, said the wood and it did,
Ten years, a hundred, a thousand, a million,
It did not matter. Time was not it’s measure,
Not it’s keeper, nor it’s master.
Wood was trees in those first days,
And when the wood sang, it was leaves,
Leaves which took flight & became birds.
It is still forest there, the forest of used-to-be,
It’s trees are the trees of memory.
Their branches still speak a story to those who will listen.
By only looking without listening, you will not hear the trees,
You will see only hard stones & a flattened landscape,
But, if you’re quiet, you will hear it.
—- Alberto Rios
