The old man cried as the yellow half-moon murmured to the birds. The birds squeaked and squawked a beautiful song, but it didn’t stop the wise man from weeping.
“Why do you cry?” I asked him.
He tensed – he didn’t know I was there with him in the night forest.
“I cry for the earth,” he said. “The trees tell me they are suffocating on gas. They shoot up in flames in this aridness. We’ve lost our way.”
The old man shook with tears, kneeling in the dry dirt. Winter leaves crunched under my bare feet. The stars above were long-distance letters from dead civilizations, dying suns.
“What shall we do?” I asked him.
“We can do nothing.” He wiped his wet, dark face with weathered hands. “It’s already too late. The earth screams to me – she wants revenge.”