“The trees, my brothers, want to escape with the clouds, they complain from the hand that wounds them, from the ax that knocks them down, always condemned to reborn, to flourish, to moan, to perpetuate their kind formidable and misunderstood species. Their voices tell them that they must occupy fallow lands, plains and cities, until the trace of the land is erased of man and move in a single branch, as in the millennia of the genesis when god was still floating above space, like a nebula of tears.”
