Voices in the forest

Deep in the woods where the woodruff blooms
and the stream idly rushes past the bend
I hear the willow whispering in an ancient tongue.

Hush, my friend, speak no more. Listen to the willow.
Listen to her tales of ancient times and of beings of old.
Don't disturb the wind as it plays in the birchtree's leaves.

Distant sounds rumble through the night like a calling of doom.
Streets and roads, the modern veins, keep drowning the gentle
voices of the trees as lorries rush by. And we almost fail to listen.

Quiet, my friend. Put your head to the bark, close your eyes. Listen.
Yes. That is your blood, brother. As the warm stream runs over
our naked feet, our blood runs through our veins to show us the truth over all the lies.

The lie that we are not a part of this. The lie that we are not wild in our hearts.
The lie that we are not another leaf of this forest. Don't believe the lies, brother.
Close your eyes. Listen. And feel how you are a part of the all-encompassing life.

The soil under your soles, the air in your ears, the stars above you and the smell
of the trees. All of them call you brother like I call you brother.
You are prey and predator. You are hunter and hunted. You are apart and a part.

Yes, brother, don't mind the insect running over your hand. It does not see you
as any different from the tree. And in that it is stupider and much wiser than we are.
For with all your fears and tears, with all your modern self, here in the forest, you are finally

home.