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| 2006-09-12 03:39:33 |
A STORY BY BEL |
 bindy |
I am not an artistic person. Not witty, nor intelligent, can;t spell and grammar? What's. Yet I decided to share with you a story I wrote about life and history ad future and stuff...well here goes...
I didn't' choose to live here, low in the valley. No I didn't. It wasn't my choice but still I made the best of it. I laid my roots and spawned a many a offspring. We were the last of our kind. Free and born naturally. Many like me me had been enslaved, forced to build houses, or fires for our masters and we sacrificed for the greater good of man.
For years we lived safetly from the eyes of accusing man, we grew in number and spread throughout the land and over hills and plains, through hot arid climates to snow covered earth. We survived in harmony with nature. In love with mother nature. we grew and adapted to our surroundings. We nurtured our children of the earth. We cared for the soil and provided homes for the animals and food for the plants.
At night we looked at the southern Cross high above us and during the days we whistled in time with the wind and played with the Kookaburras. By God we were free.
Then it came one morning. Low in the valley I heard the first high on the mountain scream. The painful scream echoed down on us all.
Day after day, hour after hour, more of our kind are forced out. Our strong and brilliant breed slain merciless on the battle fields.
I stand still and tall as the leader of the metal army marks me. Marks me with the execution cross. I stand proud. I grew up here, survived everything mother nature threw at me. Survived floods, fires, droughts, disease and the enemies within. Yet here i stood marked. It was time to move on. Make way for progress and mini malls.
The smaller, weaker ones were forced out their broken limbs torn from them, disembowed and lain to waste. Hundreds, thousands killed without thought. Hacked as murder spread across the land.
The men with their metal army carefully and meticulously picked of the smallest of our kind. It was precision execution. Mass genocide.
I still stood tall. Proud of my heritage, of my freedom. I watched as the seasons changed and new families, not natives like our kind, took possession of our land. There I stood, a silent protester marked with a bright red blood cross. Marked for termination.
Most of the killing, raping machines left. They had won the war. A man measured me up and discussed with another man my value and would I be useful. I heard the death bell toll and the weapon roar to life. They pushed it in my side and I started to bleed, cool, soft, thick blood. The man stood back and yelled "timber" as I crashed hard to the earth that had fed my roots for hundreds of years....
The animals have died and the new trees planted, the non natives, have sapped the soil of nutrient leaving it salty. Their leaves don't rot and feed the way the natives did...
I wrote this five years ago when wandering through the forest behind where i lived. That Forest has since gone, made way for apartments. I know the story ain't good (i'm not artist) but I live in the Whitsunday's for jah's sake. Whitsunday's aka Noosa welcome to our paradise made on money.
i am not a hippie or an environmentalist or anything but please keep this place beautiful. Have we not let the rich spoil our beauty. we live in paradise and we don't even have recycling.
R.I.P
airlie beach
Mood - Sad 'cause I serious. happy 'cause life goes on.
Music - Frank Sinatra |
| Edited - Never |
 2 Comments
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