The Unveiling Truth: A Dialogue with the Earth

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No fabric needed for my frame unseen,
Nor for the ancient forest, wild and green.
No hue to color where no form has been,
No painted leaf, no falsely sparkling sheen.
If I were ugly, would it truly matter?
When beauty's just a fleeting, human chatter,
Like distant echoes from a felled tree's fall,
Ignoring wisdom, deafened to the call.
For grace and pride, for all that humans crave,
Are fleeting whispers on a transient wave.
My naked truth, if form I were to own,
Would be more honest than a sculpted stone.
For what is beauty but a painted show,
When genuine essence is the only glow?
So let me be, in essence, clear and plain,
Beyond the joy of dress, or bitter stain.

Our stained garments, these torn threads we wear—
How do they tarnish your "pride," tell me, how?
Just pause and consider, if you even care!
These scraps, salvaged from refuse, soaked in despair,
Stained with the salt of tears, the grime of hard toil—
What threat do they pose to your gleaming spires, there?
For us, this is life, survival's stark plea!
But for you?
You mimic our rags, mock our reality,
Indulging your gaze, in power's cruel glee.
You're the ones, aren't you, who wear our disguise,
To revel in mockery, through your judging eyes?
Just as you strip the forest of its cloak,
And call it progress, a glorious, final stroke.

To hide the lies held deep within your hearts,
You need no clothes; they play no honest parts.
But to conceal the falsehoods of your deeds,
You turn your garments into disguises, meeting your needs.
You're the ones who scorn us with disdain,
Who mock our torn clothes, enduring every pain.
Adorned in your vibrant, colorful attire,
You are the ones who made us feel dire.
You pave the pathways where wild things once ran,
And deem the concrete better than nature's plan.

The dark yearn for light, the light sometimes darkens their hue—
In this game of colors, who truly hides their truth?
Or does your "beauty" begin and end with the skin's passing hue?
The forest breathes in verdant, earthy tones,
Its true colors speak, from roots to ancient stones.
The scent of our sweat, these footprints in clay—
That is our authentic form, come what may!
More profound than your finery, grand and so proud,
These ragged clothes are our true dignity, shouted aloud!
For they hold no blemish, no deceit, no disguise.
They won't tarnish your pride; they just reveal your lies!

In your white smiles, so seemingly pure,
In your smooth words, what darkness do you secure?
Are not your deceptions, your hollow pretense,
More hateful than our naked truth's defense?
Though stained and torn, these clothes we wear,
Speak of truth, of sweat, of burdens we bear.
They hold the cries of those oppressed and bound.
What's in your garments? Just empty pride, we've found,
And sheer hypocrisy, on hollow ground,
Like barren clearings where mighty trees once crowned!
In every color, you forged division's might,
In every garment, you drew the lines of blight.
But know this, clearly, with all your might:
Your colors and clothes won't hide our soul's true light.
Our truth, like this earth, is solid, firm, and deep.
Your false disguises can't make our spirit weep,
Nor make our essence ugly; our truth we'll keep!
The forest sighs its wisdom, ancient, slow,
A primal truth your hurried hearts don't know.
Will you listen now, before the last breath fades,
To nature's counsel, through your man-made masquerades?

 

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