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Rated: E · Poetry · Environment · #1817311
These hills try to speak to us.
The trees of these hills whisper ancient secrets,

but no one listens.

They try and tell us of the beauties of our hills,

but no one listens.

The woods cry for our mercy and beg for help,

but no one listens.

No one listens because we have forgotten how to listen,

and we don't care to remember.

Spirits of the woods warn us of our selfish self-destruction,

and we choose not to listen,

for we are humans.

We will listen only when we are the ones crying for mercy,

to a catalyst unknown to us.
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