If you believe, as I do, that all of Creation has a voice if we would just listen with our souls instead of just using our ears we could hear the trees singing and know it was more than an afternoon breeze. They do not hear the Great Song, the Oran Mor of the Celts.
Those who use the world assuming
their knowledge is sufficient
destroy the world. The forest
is mangled for sale
of a few sticks, or is bulldozed
into a stream and covered over
the earth it once stood
upon. The stream turns foul,
killing the creatures that once
lived from it. Industrial humanity,
an alien species, lives by death.
In the clutter of facts, the destroyers
leave behind them on big story,
of the world and the world's end,
that they don't know. They know
the names and the little stories. But the
names of everything are not everything.
The story of everything, told,
is only a little story. They don't know
the languages of the birds
who pass northward, feeding
through the treetops early in
May, kept alive by knowledge
never to said in words.
Hang your head. This is our hope: Words
emerge from silence, the silence remains.
Wendell Berry 2007