Wangari Maathai’s Final Warning

I planted trees, but you set forests on fire. I healed the earth, but you poisoned the rivers. I told you, again and again, that the land is not yours to wound— but you carve its flesh with greed. How many roots must wither before you listen? How many storms must drown your cities, how many fields must crack and crumble before you stop calling destruction progress? You have unmade the future with your hands. You stand in halls of power, shaking hands, signing papers, while the earth burns outside your windows. You speak of policies and targets, but the trees hear only silence. I have no more gentle words for you. You are not kings; you are thieves. You are not leaders; you are gravediggers. I have seen your promises turn to dust, and I refuse to bless your betrayal. But still, the roots remember. Still, the earth waits for justice. The wind carries my voice in the rustling leaves, pleading with those who have not yet forgotten to rise, to fight, to heal.