Barren. The only word that describes the landscape that lays forth me. The once grass that carpeted the floor of this land died long ago – leaving its mark through dust that surrounds the cracks in the ground. The once birdsong was nowhere to be heard, ever since the destruction of its home. The once river that meandered through the trees remained as only a sad dent in the ground that gathered nothing but dirt.
I stand here as a lone survivor of the attacks that relinquished the lives of my family. Throughout the cycle of the blistering sun and the cold winds brought by the moon, I have no choice but to grieve.
The carcasses of my loved ones lay still and motionless – remnants of the once flourishing ecosystem and land that was destroyed in a matter of days. Everywhere I look I see corpses that brings tears to my eyes.
They came to this sanctuary with machines, slicing my family open as I silently screamed – begging for mercy. I now wished I was gone with them – at least I would not be forced to see the downfall of humanity, just for progress and profit.
A drop of water is unheard of in this land. I search for some with my many hands, but alas only the few wafts of moisture had to suffice. I became thin and frail, fighting relentlessly against the harsh winds that try break me.
For I am a tree. The solitary guardian of the graveyard left by those, protecting the tombstones of stumps that jut out the ground – serving as a reminder of the terrors of that time. No one will be here to notice my death, the death of the solitary witness that knows what the world used to be.