The earth does not shout — she whispers.
In the rustle of dying leaves, in the silence where birds once sang, she tells us that something sacred is slipping away. Forests — her green heart — are vanishing, one acre, one tree, one breath at a time.

Every year, humanity cuts down over 10 million hectares of forest — the very lungs that cradle our existence. The soil grows tired, rivers run shallow, and the air grows heavy. Yet even now, the earth waits for us — not with anger, but with patience — as if she still believes we will remember who we are.

To plant a tree is not merely to grow wood and leaf.
It is to restore balance, to confess our forgetfulness, to begin again.
A seed in the soil is a declaration of faith — that life, though wounded, will rise again.

When we plant together, across oceans and continents, we weave a silent covenant: humans and earth, one breath, one rhythm. In Kenya’s reforested hills, in India’s sacred groves, in Brazil’s regrown Amazon, people are proving that healing is not a dream — it’s an act.

Every tree carries memory. It drinks from ancient rains and exhales tomorrow’s air. When we plant, we are not just growing forests — we are rebuilding the story of our humanity.

If enough hands dig, enough hearts care, the soil will forgive us.
The forests will return.
And maybe — just maybe — the world will breathe again.