Under the Earth

Untitled | Jade Rivas | Photograph

Under the Earth by Evan Song

I have lived for eons; 

I have been here since this world was born, and I shall be here until it dies.

Wind and rain shape me, morph my body at their leisure,

flowers bloom on my skin, 

worms move through my veins.

Other creatures make their homes on top of me, in the trees and bushes that sprout out of my body.

Some live inside me and others live on me, but all live with me.

I have experienced this world for longer than you could comprehend,

life starts and ends, filling me with nutrients,

nutrients start the cycle anew,

a cycle of loving and living and encountering the beauty of nature.

And you...

I was there during all of your decisions, from the important ones that shaped your species to the small ones that affected only yourself.

I saw you start out in my trees, then come down,

start on four legs, then move to two.

You grew, and you started to shape me,

as the wind and the rain shaped me in the beginning.

You reached into me, drawing out the precious rocks stored within me.

I gave them willingly, wanting to help you with your growth.

you built structures on me, 

elaborate structures of metal, stone and wood,

balancing them on the robe of grass that adorns me.

You laughed with your young ones,

Sang sweet songs that rivaled birds’ melodies,

whispered sweet words into each other's ears.

I was content.

And then the bombs dropped.

Big heavy pieces of metal -- stuffed with fire -- raining down,

slamming, 

gouging, 

ripping, 

tearing into me.

I saw the pillars of flames reaching up, 

shooting into the air like some primordial demon,

covering me with harsh light,

acrid smoke filling my vision, smothering me.

I felt your structures crumbling, falling into the water,

toppling like a child’s castle of bricks kicked by a sadistic bully,

collapsing into rubble, the great pains that had been taken to erect them erased in a second.

The water in the harbor, almost as old as me, is now a liquid cemetery.

People jump in to avoid the heat, rushing like lemmings off a cliff,

some drown,

some are buried by the rubble of buildings and sinking ships,

but very few come back out.

A cacophony of suffering ripples out across the harbor, barely audible over the roaring thunder of the bombs.

The sound of pain, 

of screams,

of fire and fury,

of death.

Your smallest ones, crying for their loved ones, broken and burned.

Then silence, the bombs finished, leaving behind only devastation.

It doesn’t last.

You are angry, furious, calling for revenge.

But I don’t feel your fury,

I feel only pain and confusion.

Why would one group of you -- separated only by space and appearance -- cause such destruction just to weaken another group’s resolve?

Your resolve has only been strengthened by this attack, 

and your retaliation is sure to cause just as much suffering,

sure to cause just as much heartbreak and agony,

sure to force your two groups even farther apart, instead of closer together. 

But it doesn’t matter, for I am broken, I am fractured.

I am split and shattered, like your two groups.

I can feel the huge craters gouged into my body.

My robe of grass has been burned off, leaving me exposed.

Parts of me have become weapons, shards of stone pushed through the air until they collided with you.

My skin has been torn away, no flowers remain.

The creatures living with me have fled,

I am no longer home.

No more creatures, just loneliness.

No life starting, just ending.

No unity, just discord.

But the most painful part is that there are so many of you,

there are too many of you,

too many buried inside me,

under the earth.

Untitled | Katie Teshome | Photography