The Earth Speaks
I have existed longer than memory, longer than your stories, longer than your dreams. I was
here before the first spark of fire in your ancestors’ hands, before the first walls rose against the
wind. My mountains stood watch as civilizations rose and fell, my rivers carried songs older than
language, and my skies stretched wide enough to hold all your hopes.
I gave freely. My forests breathed life into your lungs, my oceans cradled the storms that
watered your crops, and my soil nourished every seed you pressed into it. I offered balance,
harmony, and abundance.
But you began to take without listening.
You cut into my forests until their silence echoed louder than birdsong. You pulled fire from
beneath my crust and poured its fumes into my air. You covered my seas with your plastics and
spilled oil into the veins that once shimmered with fish. At first, I tried to absorb the wounds. I
healed where I could. A forest regrew here, a river cleared there. But your hands became faster
than my recovery, and my body now strains under the weight of your desire.
Do you not feel it? My breath is heavy with heat. My winters are shorter, my summers burn. The
ice that once crowned my poles now slips quietly into the sea. Storms that were once rare are
now my angry shouts, hurricanes spinning like unhealed scars.
When I tremble, you call it earthquake. When I cough, you name it wildfire. When I cry, you say
flood. Yet these are not disasters of chance—they are my language. I have been speaking to
you in every drought, every storm, every broken season.
Still, I do not despise you. How could I? You are born of me—flesh from my soil, water from my
rain, breath from my trees. You are as much a part of me as the stones and the stars. What I
ask is not surrender, but respect. Care for me as I have cared for you. Plant trees not only for
shade, but for tomorrow. Protect the seas not only for food, but for their song. Step lightly, so my
scars have a chance to heal.
I am not infinite. I am strong, yes, but also fragile. If you push me past my limits, I will
endure—but you may not.
And yet, I hold hope. I have seen you create beauty, kindness, and wonder. I have seen you
pause to listen to the wind in the grass, or marvel at the colors of a sunset. In those moments, I
know you remember that we are one.
I am Earth. I am your home, your cradle, your only refuge in the silence of space. I have given
you everything. The question that lingers is not whether I will survive—I will, in one form or
another. The question is whether you will walk beside me, or vanish from my story.
The choice, children of mine, is yours.