I talk to the plants, they say they are bored
I wonder why I am not them.

I feel jarred by the pollution, marred by the confusion;
so profound and superficial in human things.

If I were a soil perhaps?
Wait, I am. Which type, they say?

I tell them, I will become the soil that will grow them (plants) in all adversities
That I shall never be concrete

That as I return to being who I always were - a soil.
I will never betray plants - the sole ally in this world,
And perhaps also in the after?

But does that realm require soil to grow plants, I ruminate.

Plants tell me to have patience, to breathe;
One day when they turn trees, they will give elixir of wisdom.
In that promise, I lived for this realm as much as I wished to run to another.
But the trees make life more bearable, otherwise I would have long left.

No matter how bad the atrocities, nature never stopped giving to its exploiter;
We called it abuse, nature called it existence.
The tree is humble, it is growing in stillness, no matter what is inflicted.

They are the sole reason, hope exists on this side of the veil.
If the trees can endure humans, why cannot I?

Of course I can and with that thought another moment in time, in epochs, goes by.