It was the last tree standing
On the prairie’s boundless ground
Harassed by the winds and rain alike
It stood alone, calm, strong
Gently holding on to its last leaves.
| “More wood, more fire, More orgies! My power shall not stand Diminished in any way. The jewels in my crown, Those trophies of battle, That glory of being The Master of his men. The vile slavery of my serfs — shall I let go of it? More orgies, more food, More laurels to my power!
“Shall a mere tree come in my way? What shall I make my men do? Eat roots when they can have pheasant stew? That last tree shall give me wood, And they – those serving men – They shall chop it, and burn it. The cooking-men will stir the pots; The hunting-men shall find for me - Pheasants, and deer and turtles; The growing men shall bring me Wheat, and rice and cotton; The weaver-men, and the barber-men And the potter-men and other men, They shall all ply their trades.
“And I: I keep the peace among them, I throw them my table-scraps, And they shall be fed And be happy. They shall not murmur And swear oaths and secrets Or in any manner rise against me.
“No more wood be there to burn? What matter? We shall burn coal.
“No more coal? O there is some left for a year? Good. Burn it, then. Does not matter. I shall be dead soon. I’m old, and I have seen my times. And they were good. Let it be, for my men are happy. Let them not stir. Once I’m dead what do I care? My son will face times Of hardship and sorrow? O! but let him face it, I can only live my life.
“I burnt the last tree, I’ll burn the last coalstone. But I’ve burnt my snuff, I have nothing more to burn. | No wood, no fire, no orgies. We shall do without them.
Let the tree stand and bear fruit and seed. We shall sow those seeds and pray.
And while a new forest grows, Let us Repent our error And pledge to learn Not to make them again.
The jewels of my crown Or the trophies of my battles, What more are they than shadows?
Whither my majesty, my laurels If my people die after me Unfed, uncared?
Shall a mere orgy today Feed famine tomorrow?
We shall have roots, and tubers, And whatever else, The growing-men can by their talents Make the mother-earth provide.
We shall all keep a pledge: I shall, with my potter-men, And hunter-men and weaver-men, And barber-men, Tend to our new forest And sing to our children Of our horror, our error.
Our dear kindred When it be time to inherit the world; We hope they shall not find Our efforts in vain.
They shall have fruits And shade, And rain, And every bounty of the forest.
Spring shall come again: There shall be birds that sing, And flowers and butterflies. And that will bring joy.
We shall have in our deaths: Peace and happiness That we lived a good life.
The coal shall stay buried, The wood stand in its glory, And I rest Forever in peace. |
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