Reflections of a Tree

I wonder where they carry truckloads of cut tree trunk
It’s not that I am unhappy in the forest,
I just wishThere were more of us to share the sun.

Old man Green Crown perhaps knows the secret
He was telling us of the town on the outskirt that grows
Tall cuboids with square gashes called windows

They carry away all the trunks, pulp them
Roll them out under gigantic pins into what’s called paper
Cut them up, dry them and write on them in the printer

We can’t run away and hide, they know all our hideouts
Their army is increasing steadily, while we lose
Slow down humans
We can’t walk, someone go tell them we want truce.