In a whispered hush, the forest stood,
A sea of green, both wild and good.
Its canopy kissed golden light,
Its roots held secrets, old and right.

The birds would sing at break of day,
The breeze would dance, then drift away.
The rivers flowed with gentle grace,
Through ancient trees in a soft embrace.

But then came saw and flame and steel,
The quiet broke with brutal zeal.
For gold and grain, the trees fell down,
The emerald faded into brown.

The creatures fled, their homes undone,
Their songs were silenced, one by one.
The soil turned dust, the streams ran dry,
The once-blue skies now choked and cry.

And we, the hands that pulled apart
The lungs, the life, the beating heart—
Now look around with troubled eyes,
And mourn the green beneath the skies.

But hope still grows where roots remain,
And forests whisper through the pain.
If we plant care, if we take stand,
The trees may rise by human hand.

So let us vow, with voice and pen,
To guard the woods and live again—
Not just as takers, lost in greed,
But as the forest's friend in need.