The Last Soft Patch of Green

We buried wells that once held the sky.
We tiled over soil that remembered touch.
Resilience is not infinite. 

And even the earth knows how to answer back.

We erase the last soft pockets of green,
seal the breathing earth in tile and stone.
Even the smallest grain of sand
forgets the memory of touch
under our neat geometries.

We silence ponds mid-reflection,
bury wells that once held the sky,
pave over the quiet thirst
of a land that used to sing
without needing an audience.

We deaden the rhythms of seasons,
replace birdsong with notifications,
clock each moment of life
into meetings, deadlines,
five-year plans.

We are always running.
Always building.
Always “developing.”

Erasing every patch of green
that dares to interrupt our blueprints.

Or is it we
who are crossing nature’s path?

—

Nature is non-human,
but never non-living.

Every tree stands brimming with breath.
Each blade of grass inhales dawn.
Rivers pulse like arteries,
oceans cradle entire civilizations
beneath their shimmering skin.

Life hums in coral reefs,
in mangrove roots,
in the patient dark of soil.

—

Nature suffers quietly
when we trample,
drill,
blast,
and rename destruction as growth.

It endures our worst days.
It absorbs our poisons.
It treasures every fragile draught of life
even when we do not.

But resilience is not infinite.
Silence is not consent.
Even the most vulnerable body
can resist.

Storms do not negotiate.
Floods do not file petitions.
Fire does not wait for permission.

Nature, with all its ancient memory,
knows how to answer.

—

Perhaps this is not revenge.
Perhaps it is recovery.

Now it is nature’s turn
to reclaim the riverbeds we erased,
to loosen the tiles from the earth’s skin,
to let roots crack through concrete,
to teach us again
that we were never
outside the forest—

only passing through it
as guests
who forgot
how to listen.