Collector of Stones and Different Kinds of Wood

Someone was here last night.

All the trees are fallen

and the soil left ashy.

They harnessed the sun,

our ancestors now dead, mourning, turn

along with this beautiful planet

over our lives put in danger.

But our needs must fulfil. 

And now, they are not our needs.

We don't know when they ceased to be,

maybe somewhere in the middle,

since surely this isn't the end.

Layer upon layer our stones assembled,

then sculpted carefully.

And the women carrying wood on their heads

upon the layers

on which rests the earthen pot

half empty.

Lay to waste the collector's art.

Deceived in disguise.

Here on my table an entire elephant sits

and the table many trees itself.

Before they were cut with the sharp edge 

of an otherwise blunt knife,

they used to be for everyone.

Now these stones are mine and these woods.

They are all mine.

Leave before you are dealt with.

I believe I have sharper knives

for you

than i do 

for the trees and the earth.