Trapped Inside This Tree

Trapped Inside This Tree

Oh help me won’t you please, I’m here, trapped inside this tree. Why won’t anyone help me? Please set me free I beg of you. I’ve been here slowly preparing for the day when I can finally be born.

Woodsman, o woodsman, please come and cut down my prison I beg you woodsman. Bring axe, bring wedge, bring mallet, bring your sharpest crosscut saw I beg of you good woodsman. Oh, come soon. The next storm will bring thunder and lightning and I shall perish here in my prison.

Bird, do you see the woodsman? Deer prick your ears; do you hear his footfall on the forest floor? Squirrel have you seen him?

Thud! What was that? Thud – thud. The woodsman is here. I can feel his sharp axe biting. It hurts. Please be quick, good woodsman. Ah, the agony. I can feel the cruel teeth of his saw as it rips into my prison; I am still connected.

My neighbours squirrel and owl are leaving my prison. Soon it will be my turn – soon. I grow dizzy; I feel faint. The pain is excruciating. Please, good woodsman, end my pain I beg you – please.

I fall; I crash to the ground, now disconnected from the earth. I lay here barely able to focus as my life’s blood leaches from me. I am growing numb to the pain now as the woodsman finishes his task. I barely sense the heavy rope strop as it is cinched to the woodsman’s horse.

My skin is ripped savagely from me as my journey along the forest floor begins. I can hardly concentrate now. The journey has stopped. Thud – thud, thud! The woodsman wastes no time. Now he begins his task to free me, as I am barely conscious, to release me from my prison as he drives his cruel iron wedges deep into my flesh.

At last, he cuts me free. I can feel the sun’s warmth on my naked flesh. He hands me to the artisan who lovingly wraps me in a damp cloth. My true journey begins at last. The journey is long, but no matter.

I feel the warmth of the artisan’s hands as he carefully unwraps my cloth protection. His sharp tools begin their work. Slowly, carefully, I am being transformed, soon I shall sing to the world. Under his practiced eye, I take shape. O artisan, give me a voice I beg you. He lovingly applies many coats of protection to my naked flesh. He garnishes my very being with his love and tender devotion.

He turns me over in his calloused but gentle hands, smiles, and gives me a voice. I see my reflection in the mirror as he holds me tenderly. I am born at last. I am Stradivarius…