If I walk on broken roots, and you on two feet, am I not to be walking because I do not walk like men do?
If I stand with my roots in the ground, and you with your two feet above soil, am I not to be standing because I do not stand like men do?
Why are my gems stolen, my fruits eaten, my flesh torn? Why are my children crying, why are yours? Why do you weep when the sky weeps for me, why do you laugh when the sky laughs at you?
O, tell me, why are my bones exploited for heat, and then my whole family pitied from the very thing? Why do you throw me in fire, but grow helpful when the fire is thrown into me?
Why do you trifle with scrawny, strewn limbs and use them as tools? Why do you steal babes from the nesters to please your own follies?
O, man, tell me so, why is that we are not let to stand? If you will destroy me, leave not even my roots. Burn me, light me all, let my ashes bring life.
Let us not be stood without will and planted by paved roads and lit lamps. Burn us down, burn us up, do not let me leave my bounds.
Let us be, let us move. Let us stand and walk, breathe and beat, wake and slumber. Let us be everything, let us free. Let us free like your men.