The Quandary©
Standing high on the mountain side
I take in the first breath of morning
It seems so much more refreshing here
Maybe it is the altitude that we are at
The aroma of my morning brew reaches my nostrils
The steam a reminder of the time of year
As I survey the pristine landscape my thoughts wander to home
Father would be at the farm readying for harvest
He too would be having his first cup of java
I can hear mother in the background reminding him of something
Soon he would be culling the herd for winter meat
Isn’t that what people say I do, cull
Yet for me gazing down the hillside it does not feel the same
Sure I do this with my fellow men to survive
But it feels like to me that we are taking them out in their prime
That somehow it is a travesty
Back at some headquarters they will remind that others will follow
We are only doing what needs to be done
That much good will come of what we will do today
And in that is my quandary
I see them fall some younger, some older, some not at all
Those few spared to provide seed for new generations
That last gasp is the same regardless of their age
The word “timber” signaling their death knell
That which took decades if not centuries to grow
Will be felled in a matter of minutes
The tree which has lived longer than I now dead
A seedling placed where it so proudly stood
I am a logger
But you can call me Bob
Andreas Simic©
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 5:22 AM UTC
The Quandary©
Standing high on the mountain side
I take in the first breath of morning
It seems so much more refreshing here
Maybe it is the altitude that we are at
The aroma of my morning brew reaches my nostrils
The steam a reminder of the time of year
As I survey the pristine landscape my thoughts wander to home
Father would be at the farm readying for harvest
He too would be having his first cup of java
I can hear mother in the background reminding him of something
Soon he would be culling the herd for winter meat
Isn’t that what people say I do, cull
Yet for me gazing down the hillside it does not feel the same
Sure I do this with my fellow men to survive
But it feels like to me that we are taking them out in their prime
That somehow it is a travesty
Back at some headquarters they will remind that others will follow
We are only doing what needs to be done
That much good will come of what we will do today
And in that is my quandary
I see them fall some younger, some older, some not at all
Those few spared to provide seed for new generations
That last gasp is the same regardless of their age
The word “timber” signaling their death knell
That which took decades if not centuries to grow
Will be felled in a matter of minutes
The tree which has lived longer than I now dead
A seedling placed where it so proudly stood
I am a logger
But you can call me Bob
Andreas Simic©
