The Yellow Log
On seeing the painting of Edvard Munch
Of the woodland stretching endless
One would feel, one has entered a sanctuary,
Where stillness prevails and coolness overpowers
There is no sound except the sound of rustling leaves.
Tall trees touching Heaven’s seams stand proud,
Telling how they withstood the harshness of the sun and the hail,
And endured the storms and attacks from humans.
The trees that figure in his painting are spruces and pines,
Growing in neat rows, forming a cool canopy overhead,
As if thoughtfully planted by nature’s caring hands.
They stand erect in purple trunks and leprous barks.
On the ground lies a tree mercilessly cut down,
Sadly, exposing its naked death wound to the sun.
It sure is a victim of man’s insatiable greed.
It is stripped off its bark and the yellow log,
Cut into pieces, show it must have been the tallest.
Greedy eyes are poised always on the best!
Doesn’t the fallen tree speak aloud this grim truth?
While all the trees stay tall raising their arms to heavens
In boundless gratitude for the fruitful life, they are granted,
One lies down on the sod, having met with its untimely end.
Thus, life and death are contrasted, one can rightfully assume!
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