Rooted firm they’re to the ground.
With sentinel surrounded all around.
Tears they shed, but tire their move.
Words they don’t utter,
And with that an advantage, we slaughter.
Years they take to go bosky again,
But our lust bothers us the most,
As we hack them again.
These hands we use,
Are not for care
And the words we use are less fair.
Never we cared for what they gave,
With their shade and blade,
Began our survival.
And all that becomes a morsel,
Of our past as we try,
To bring down a creature of zilch,
And then should we call ourselves a human again?
bosky- wooded (Shakespeare Language)