The Last Tree On Earth Tells its story: The Last Tree and Earth’s Whisper #BlogchatterHalfMarathon @Blogchatter

I am the last tree on Earth—
My bark, the ancient scroll that time forgot to erase,
My roots, the weary veins that once drank from an endless sky.

I remember when my brethren stretched like a sea,
A forest vast and wild,
Each leaf a whispered story,
A breath of air shared in green chorus.

Now I stand solitary,
A sentinel to the silence,
To the absence that hums
Where once was vibrant chorus.

I tell you this story—
Not with branches raised in triumph,
Nor leaves trembling in hope,
But with a voice rough as bark,
Slow as the growth of rings within me.

I have watched the stars wheel overhead
In lonely vigil,
While the wind moves through empty spaces,
Searching for old friends among the dust.

I remember the laughter of the birds,
Their songs a tapestry woven in sunlight,
Now echoes trapped in a hollow memory.

No children run beneath me now,
No hands for my rough trunk,
No shade sought to catch a moment’s rest.

I tell you of my pain,
Not of wounds visible,
But of the slow thinning of life’s thread
Within my veins.

I am the last testament in a world forgetting green,
A relic to a lost covenant—
Between earth and sky,
Between root and leaf.

I have absorbed the stories of ages,
The silent sermons of the rain,
The lessons whispered by the stars,
And now I share them with the wind.

Listen—
To the stillness that fills my branches,
To the memories etched deep in my grain,
To the pulse of a world held hostage by its own blind hand.

I once held secrets of the earth—
Of water’s journey beneath the soil,
Of sun’s embrace warming my leaves,
Of creatures safe beneath my boughs.

Now I am a monument,
A living poem comprised of loss and remembrance,
Of resilience that flares in the face of despair.

I am not bitter,
For I know the dance of life is fleeting,
A cycle spinning in unpredictable rhythms—
Yet, in my final breath,
I ask you to remember.

Remember me,
Not as a symbol of end,
But as a covenant to beginning,
A promise carved in grain and fiber—
That life, fragile and fierce,
Can rise again.

From my seed—
A spark—a chance,
From the ashes of what was,
A future may yet take root.

But only if your hands are gentle,
Your hearts awake,
Your voices rise in steady chorus,
To welcome green once more.

I hold within me the power of time,
The story of dawn and dusk,
Of storms weathered and seasons turned,
Of silent growth beneath the canopy.

I am a story told by earth itself,
A voice carried in the breeze,
A memory that aches to be heard,
The last tree on Earth,
Speaking in the language of roots and wind.

Will you listen?

Will you carry my story
Beyond what I am now,
To the hearts yet unborn,
To the soil waiting?

Be the keeper of the green,
The guardian of new life,
The echo of a world that chose to heal.

Here, at the end of all things,
A single tree whispers—
And in that whisper,
The breath of what may still be.

I am Earth—  
the ancient mother, the endless canvas beneath your feet,  
the silent witness to the rise and fall of all that you hold dear.  
I carry the weight of history in my bones,  
the stories of rivers, mountains, and forests etched deep into my flesh.  

I hear the last tree's whisper, his voice trembling like a fragile leaf  
caught in the breath of a dying wind.  
He is my child, my mirror, my final prayer cast into the boundless sky—  
and I bear his story as my own.

Once, my arms stretched far and wide,  
covered in a tapestry of green that clothed continents,  
offering sanctuary to the countless lives that danced upon my surface.  
I fed the soil with secrets the stars whispered,  
cradled oceans that sang lullabies to the moon,  
and turned sunlight into the breath of life.

But I have felt your absence more keenly than the fading of seasons,  
your footsteps echoing in silence, carving scars across my skin,  
grasping greedily with hands that forget to give back.  
You took without asking, shattered without mending,  
and left my children to wither under storms they did not summon.

Now I am worn, a cracked shell of mercy,  
my breath labored beneath the weight of your forgetting.  
I weep rivers that swell into floods,  
weep flames that dance beyond control,  
weep silence where song once lived.

To the last tree, I say this:  
You are the pulse that still beats beneath my tired heart,  
the fragile beacon in a world grown dark.  
Your roots reach deep, cradling the remnants of miracles,  
your leaves shimmer with the fragile light of hope.

I remember each branch that once held the secrets of the wind,  
every ring that told the tale of time's slow march.  
I feel your pain, your loneliness imprinted within me,  
for you are not just a tree, but the breath of the living earth itself.

And yet, in your stillness, in your quiet endurance,  
there lies a song—a promise threading through the dust.  
From your broken seed, a future may bloom,  
not just for you, but for the world you carry in your shade.

But, hear me when I say this:  
Hope is a whisper that must be made loud.  
It is a covenant etched not by the wind or the rain alone,  
but by the hands, hearts, and voices of those who remain.

Will you listen to the earth's story?  
Will you stand with me, hold with me, fight with me—  
to weave a new story of rebirth, resilience, reverence?

In my deepest core, beneath layers of stone and soil,  
life persists—waiting, yearning for the touch of care.  
The air trembles with possibility, the sun still casts its golden grace,  
and the rains murmur secrets of renewal.

The last tree speaks truth—  
but I am the voice that can nurture that truth into life again.  
Together, we are the keepers of the fragile green,  
the silent architects of what may yet grow.

Stand with me. Tend the soil, guard the waters, cradle the skies—  
and from this final seed,  
let the forest rise once more.

I am Earth.  
I am more than a witness—I am a promise.  
And even in the quiet aftermath,  
I hold the breath of tomorrow in my ancient hands.

This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon